UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


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Mrs,   I.Iabel  Herbert 


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MASTERPIECES  OF 

FRENCH    FICTION 

(rrowne&  b^ 

The  Academie  Francaise 
■Rnown  as 

"THE    IMMORTALS" 


Alphome  Daudet 

[From  a  Photograph. "[ 


FROMONT  AND 
RISLER 

By  ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Crowned   by    the    French    Academy 


With  a  Preface  by  LE- 
CONTE  DE  LISLE, 
of  the  French  Academy, 
and  Illustrations  .by 
EMILE  BAYARD 


NEW    YORK 

Cturrent  Literature  Publishing  Company 

1908 


Copyright,    1905 

BY 

ROBERT    ARNOT 


» • •  '•• 


*••*•< 


-•   •    • 


Pa 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 


'OMINALLY,  Daudet,  with  the  Gon- 
courts  and  Zola,  formed  a  trio  repre- 
senting Naturalism  in  fiction.  He 
adopted  the  watchwords  of  that 
school,  and  by  private  friendship,  no 
less  than  by  a  common  profession  of 
faith,  was  one  of  them.  But  the  stu- 
dents of  the  future,  while  recogniz- 
ing an  obvious  affinity  between  the  other  two,  may  be 
puzzled  to  find  Daudet's  name  conjoined  with  theirs. 

Decidedly,  Daudet  belonged  to  the  ReaHstic  School. 
But,  above  all,  he  was  an  Impressionist.  All  that  can 
be  observed — the  individual  picture,  scene,  character — 
Daudet  will  render  with  wonderful  accuracy,  and  all  his 
novels,  especially  those  written  after  1870,  show  an  in- 
creasing firmness  of  touch,  limpidity  of  style,  and  wise 
simplicity  in  the  use  of  the  sources  of  pathetic  emotion, 
such  as  befit  the  cautious  Naturalist.  Daudet  wrote 
stories,  but  he  had  to  be  listened  to.  Feverish  as  his 
method  of  writing  was — true  to  his  Southern  character 
— ^he  took  endless  pains  to  write  well,  revising  every 
manuscript  three  times  over  from  beginning  to  end. 
He  wrote  from  the  very  midst  of  the  human  comedy; 
and  it  is  from  this  that  he  seems  at  times  to  have  caught 
the  bodily  warmth  and  the  taste  of  the  tears  and  the 

[V] 


377310 


PREFACE 

very  ring  of  the  laughter  of  men  and  women.  In  the 
earlier  novels,  perhaps,  the  transitions  from  episode  to 
episode  or  from  scene  to  scene  are  often  abrupt,  sug- 
gesting the  manner  of  the  Goncourts.  But  to  Zola  he 
forms  an  instructive  contrast,  of  the  same  school,  but 
not  of  the  same  family.  Zola  is  methodical,  Daudet 
spontaneous.  Zola  works  with  documents,  Daudet 
from  the  Hving  fact.  Zola  is  objective,  Daudet  with 
equal  scope  and  fearlessness  shows  more  personal  feel- 
ing and  hence  more  delicacy.  And  in  style  also  Zola  is 
vast,  architectural;  Daudet  slight,  rapid,  subtle,  lively, 
suggestive.  And  finally,  in  their  philosophy  of  life, 
Zola  may  inspire  a  hate  of  vice  and  wrong,  but  Daudet 
wins  a  love  for  what  is  good  and  true. 

Alphonse  Daudet  was  bom  in  Nimes,  Provence, 
May  13,  1840.  His  father  had  been  a  well-to-do  silk 
manufacturer,  but,  while  Alphonse  was  still  a  child, 
lost  his  property.  Poverty  compelled  the  son  to  seek 
the  wretched  post  of  usher  (pion)  in  a  school  at  Alais. 
In  November,  1857,  he  settled  in  Paris  and  joined  his 
almost  equally  penniless  brother  Ernest.  The  auto- 
biography, Le  Petit  Chose  (1868),  gives  graphic  details 
about  this  period.  His  first  years  of  literary  life  were 
those  of  an  industrious  Bohemian,  with  poetry  for  con- 
solation and  newspaper  work  for  bread.  He  had  se- 
cured a  secretaryship  with  the  Due  de  Momy,  President 
of  the  Corps  L^gislatif,  and  had  won  recognition  for 
his  short  stories  in  the  Figaro,  when  failing  health  com- 
pelled him  to  go  to  Algiers.  Returning,  he  married 
toward  that  period  a  lady  (Julia  Allard,  bom  1847), 
whose    literary   talent   comprehended,    supplemented, 

[vi] 


PREFACE 

and  aided  his  own.  After  the  death  of  the  Due  de 
Momy  (1865)  he  consecrated  himself  entirely  to 
literature  and  published  Lettres  de  mon  Moulin  (1868), 
which  also  made  his  name  favorably  known.  He  now 
turned  from  fiction  to  the  drama,  and  it  was  not  until 
after  1870  that  he  became  fully  conscious  of  his  voca- 
tion as  a  novelist,  perhaps  through  the  trials  of  the  siege 
of  Paris  and  the  humiliation  of  his  country,  which  deep- 
ened his  nature  without  souring  it.  Daudet's  genial 
satire,  Tartarin  de  Tarascon,  appeared  in  1872;  but 
with  the  Parisian  romance  Fromont  jeune  et  Risler  aine, 
crowned  by  the  Academy  (1874),  he  suddenly  ad- 
vanced into  the  foremost  rank  of  French  novelists;  it 
was  his  first  great  success,  or,  as  he  puts  it,  "the  dawn 
of  his  popularity." 

How  numberless  editions  of  this  book  were  printed, 
and  rights  of  translations  sought  from  other  countries, 
Daudet  has  told  us  with  natural  pride.  The  book 
must  be  read  to  be  appreciated.  "Risler,  a  self-made, 
honest  man,  raises  himself  socially  into  a  society 
against  the  corruptness  of  which  he  has  no  defence 
and  from  which  he  escapes  only  by  suicide.  Sidonie 
Chebe  is*  a  peculiarly  French  type,  a  vain  and  heart- 
less woman;  Delobelle,  the  actor,  a  delectable  figure; 
the  domestic  simplicity  of  Desiree  Delobelle  and  her 
mother  quite  refreshing." 

Success  followed  now  after  success.  Jack  (1876); 
Le  Nahah  (1877);  Les  Rois  en  exil  (1879);  Niima 
Roumestan  (1882);  UEvangeliste  (1883);  Sapho  (1884); 
Tartarin  sur  des  Alpes  (i886);  Ulmmortel  (1888); 
Port  Tarascon  (1890);    Rose  et  Ninette  (1892);    La 

[vii] 


PREFACE 

petite  Parvisse  (1895);  and  Soutien  de  Famille  (1899); 
such  is  the  long  Hst  of  the  great  life-artist.  In  Le  Nabob 
we  find  obvious  traces  of  Daudet's  visits  to  Algiers  and 
Corsica — Mora  is  the  Due  de  Momy.  Sapho  is  the 
most  concentrated  of  his  novels,  with  never  a  diver- 
gence, never  a  break,  in  its  development.  And  of  the 
theme — legitimate  marriage  contra  common-law — what 
need  be  said  except  that  he  handled  it  in  a  manner 
most  acceptable  to  the  aesthetic  and  least  offensive  to 
the  moral  sense  ? 

Ulmmortel  is  a  satire  springing  from  personal  rea- 
sons; UEvangeliste  and  Rose  et  Ninette — the  latter  on 
the  divorce  problem — may  be  classed  as  clever  novels; 
but  had  Daudet  never  written  more  than  Fromont  et 
Risler,  Tartarin  sur  les  Alpes,  and  Port  Tarascofi,  these 
would  keep  him  in  lasting  remembrance. 

We  must  not  omit  to  mention  also  many  contes  and 
his  Trente  ans  de  Paris  (A  travers  ma  vie  et  mes  livres), 
Souvenirs  d^un  Homme  de  lettres  (1888),  and  Notes  sur 
la  Vie  (1899). 

The  dramas  of  Daudet  are:  La  dernihre  Idole  (1862); 
Les  Absents  (1864);  UOeillet  blanc  (1865);  Le  Frhe 
ainS  (1867);  Le  Sacrifice  (1869);  U Arlesienne  (1872); 
Lise  Tavemier  (1872);  LeChar  (1878);  and  UObstacle 
(1890).  He  also  assisted  in  dramatizing  most  of  his 
novels. 

Alphonse  Daudet  died  in  Paris,  December  16,  1897. 


2-   /9^k^ 


de  I'Acaddmie  Fran^ise. 
[viii] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

A  Wedding  Party  at  tto:  Caf^  V^fqur i 

CHAPTER  II 
Little  CniiBE's  Story  , 15 

CHAPTER  III 
The  False  Pearls 34 

CHAPTER  IV 
The  Glow-Worms  of  Savigny 52 

CHAPTER  V 
How  Little  ChI:be's  Story  Ended .    68 

CHAPTER  VI 
"My  Wife's  Reception  Day" 77 

CHAPTER  VU 
TgE  True  Pearl  and  the  False .89 

CHAPTER  VIII 
The  Brewery  on  the  Rue  Blondel 99 

CHAPTER  IX 
At  3AVXCNY •     •    .     «  zx^ 

[«] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  X 

PAGE 

SiGisMOND  Planus  Trembles  for  His  Cash-Box      .     .126 

CHAPTER  XI 
The  Inventory 139 

CHAPTER  XII 
A  Letter 159 

CHAPTER  XIII 
The  Judge 160 

CHAPTER  XIV 
Explanation 185 

CHAPTER  XV 
Poor  Little  Mam'zelle  Zizi        200 

CHAPTER  XVI 
The  Waiting-Room 207 

CHAPTER  XVII 
An  Item  of  News 218 

CHAPTER  XVIII 
She  Promised  Not  to  Try  Again 231 

CHAPTER  XIX 
Approaching  Clouds 239 

CHAPTER  XX 
Revelations 246 

CHAPTER  XXI 
The  Day  of  Reckoning 368 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XXII 

PAGE 

The  New  Employ^  of  the  House  of  Fromont  .     .     .  288 

CHAPTER  XXIII 
The  Caf±  Chantant 304 

CHAPTER  XXIV 
SmoNiE's  Vengeance 325 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING   PAGE 

Alphonse  Daudet  (portrait) Frontispiece 

Nothing  delighted  her  more  than  a  supper  at  the  Cafe  Anglais  132 
And  he  did  not  kill  her! 216 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 


CHAPTER  I 

A  WEDDING-PARTY  AT  THE  CAFE  VEFOUR 

'ADAME  CHfeBE!" 

"My  boy " 

"I  am  so  happy!" 
This  was  the  twentieth  time  that 
day  that  the  good  Risler  had  said  that 
he  was  happy,  and  always  with  the 
same  emotional  and  contented  man- 
ner, in  the  same  low,  deep  voice — 
the  voice  that  is  held  in  check  by  emotion  and  does 
not  speak  too  loud  for  fear  of  suddenly  breaking  into 
violent  tears. 

Not  for  the  world  would  Risler  have  wept  at  that 
moment — imagine  a  newly-made  husband  giving  way 
to  tears  in  the  midst  of  the  wedding-festival !    And  yet 
he  had  a  strong  inclination  to  do  so.    His  happiness 
stifled  him,  held  him  by  the  throat,  prevented  the  words 
from  coming  forth.     All  that  he  could  do  was  to  mur- 
mur from  time  to  time,  with  a  slight  trembling  of  the 
lips,  "I  am  happy;  I  am  happy!" 
Indeed,  he  had  reason  to  be  happy. 
Since  early  morning  the  poor  man  hsi-d  fancied  th^t 
J  [I] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

he  was  being  whirled  along  in  one  of  those  magnificent 
dreams  from  which  one  fears  lest  he  may  awake  sud- 
denly with  blinded  eyes;  but  it  seemed  to  him  as  if 
this  dream  would  never  end.  It  had  begun  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  at  ten  o'clock  at  night, 
exactly  ten  o'clock  by  Vefour's  clock,  he  was  still 
dreaming. 

How  many  things  had  happened  during  that  day, 
and  how  vividly  he  remembered  the  most  trivial  de- 
tails. 

He  saw  himself,  at  daybreak,  striding  up  and  down 
his  bachelor  quarters,  delight  mingled  with  impatience, 
clean-shaven,  his  coat  on,  and  two  pairs  of  white  gloves 
in  his  pocket.  Then  there  were  the  wedding-coaches, 
and  in  the  foremost  one — the  one  with  white  horses, 
white  reins,  and  a  yellow  damask  lining — the  bride,  in 
her  finery,  floated  by  like  a  cloud.  Then  the  proces- 
sion into  the  church,  two  by  two,  the  white  veil  in 
advance,  ethereal,  and  dazzling  to  behold.  The  organ, 
the  verger,  the  cure's  sermon,  the  tapers  casting  their 
light  upon  jewels  and  spring  gowns,  and  the  throng  of 
people  in  the  sacristy,  the  tiny  white  cloud  swallowed 
up,  surrounded,  embraced,  while  the  bridegroom  dis- 
tributed hand-shakes  among  all  the  leading  tradesmen 
of  Paris,  who  had  assembled  to  do  him  honor.  And 
the  grand  crash  from  the  organ  at  the  close,  made  more 
solemn  by  the  fact  that  the  church  door  was  thrown 
wide  open,  so  that  the  whole  street  took  part  in  the 
family  ceremony — the  music  passing  through  the  vesti- 
bule at  the  same  time  with  the  procession — the  exclama- 
tions of  the  crowd,  and  a  burnisher  in  an  ample  lute- 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

string  apron  remarking  in  a  loud  voice,  "The  groom 
isn't  handsome,  but  the  bride's  as  pretty  as  a  picture." 
That  is  the  kind  of  thing  that  makes  you  proud  when 
you  happen  to  be  the  bridegroom. 

And  then  the  breakfast  at  the  factory,  in  a  work- 
room adorned  with  hangings  and  flowers;  the  drive  in 
the  Bois — a  concession  to  the  wishes  of  his  mother-in- 
law,  Madame  Chebe,  who,  being  the  petty  Parisian 
bourgeoise  that  she  was,  would  not  have  deemed  her 
daughter  legally  married  without  a  drive  around  the 
lake  and  a  visit  to  the  Cascade.  Then  the  return  for 
dinner,  as  the  lamps  were  being  lighted  along  the 
boulevard,  where  people  turned  to  look  after  the  wed- 
ding-party, a  typical  well-to-do  bourgeois  wedding- 
party,  as  it  drove  up  to  the  grand  entrance  at  Vefour's 
with  all  the  style  the  livery  horses  could  command. 

Risler  had  reached  that  point  in  his  dream. 

And  now  the  worthy  man,  dazed  with  fatigue  and 
well-being,  glanced  vaguely  about  that  huge  table  of 
twenty-four  covers,  curved  in  the  shape  of  a  horseshoe 
at  the  ends,  and  surrounded  by  smiling,  familiar  faces, 
wherein  he  seemed  to  see  his  happiness  reflected  in 
every  eye.  The  dinner  was  drawing  near  its  close. 
The  wave  of  private  conversation  flowed  around  the 
table.  Faces  were  turned  toward  one  another,  black 
sleeves  stole  behind  waists  adorned  with  bunches  of 
asclepias,  a  childish  face  laughed  over  a  fruit  ice,  and 
the  dessert  at  the  level  of  the  guests'  lips  encompassed 
the  cloth  with  animation,  bright  colors,  and  light. 

Ah,  yes!  Risler  was  very  happy. 

Except  his  brother  Frantz,  everybody  he  loved  was 

[3] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

there.  First  of  all,  sitting  opposite  him,  was  Sidonie — 
yesterday  little  Sidonie,  to-day  his  wife.  For  the  cere- 
mony of  dinner  she  had  laid  aside  her  veil;  she  had 
emerged  from  her  cloud.  Now,  above  the  smooth, 
white  silk  gown,  appeared  a  pretty  face  of  a  less  lus- 
trous and  softer  white,  and  the  crown  of  hair — beneath 
that  other  crown  so  carefully  bestowed — would  have 
told  you  of  a  tendency  to  rebel  against  life,  of  little 
feathers  fluttering  for  an  opportunity  to  fly  away.  But 
husbands  do  not  see  such  things  as  those. 

Next  to  Sidonie  and  Frantz,  the  person  whom  Risler 
loved  best  in  the  world  was  Madame  Georges  Fro- 
mont,  whom  he  called  "Madame  Chorche,"  the  wife 
of  his  partner  and  the  daughter  of  the  late  Fromont, 
his  former  employer  and  his  god.  He  had  placed  her 
beside  him,  and  in  his  manner  of  speaking  to  her  one 
could  read  affection  and  deference.  She  was  a  very 
young  woman,  of  about  the  same  age  as  Sidonie,  but 
of  a  more  regular,  quiet  and  placid  type  of  beauty. 
She  talked  little,  being  out  of  her  element  in  that 
conglomerate  assemblage;  but  she  tried  to  appear 
affable. 

On  Risler's  other  side  sat  Madame  Chebe,  the 
bride's  mother,  radiant  and  gorgeous  in  her  green  satin 
gown,  which  gleamed  like  a  shield.  Ever  since  the 
morning  the  good  woman's  every  thought  had  been  as 
brilliant  as  that  robe  of  emblematic  hue.  At  every 
moment  she  said  to  herself:  "My  daughter  is  marry- 
ing Fromont  Jeune  and  Risler  Aine,  of  Rue  des  Vieilles- 
Haudriettes!"  For,  in  her  mind,  it  was  not  Risler 
alone  whom  her  daughter  took  for  her  husband,  but  the 

[4] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

whole  sign  of  the  establishment,  illustrious  in  the  com- 
mercial annals  of  Paris;  and  whenever  she  mentally 
announced  that  glorious  event,  Madame  Chebe  sat  more 
erect  than  ever,  stretching  the  silk  of  the  bodice  until 
it  almost  cracked. 

What  a  contrast  to  the  attitude  of  Monsieur  Chebe, 
who  was  seated  at  a  short  distance.  In  different  house- 
holds, as  a  general  rule,  the  same  causes  produce  alto- 
gether different  results.  That  little  man,  with  the  high 
forehead  of  a  visionary,  as  inflated  and  hollow  as  a 
ball,  was  as  fierce  in  appearance  as  his  wife  was  radiant. 
That  was  nothing  unusual,  by  the  way,  for  Monsieur 
Chebe  was  in  a  frenzy  the  whole  year  long.  On  this 
particular  evening,  however,  he  did  not  wear  his  cus- 
tomary woe-begone,  lack-lustre  expression,  nor  the  full- 
skirted  coat,  with  the  pockets  sticking  out  behind, 
filled  to  repletion  with  samples  of  oil,  wine,  truffles,  or 
vinegar,  according  as  he  happened  to  be  dealing  in  one 
or  the  other  of  those  articles.  His  black  coat,  new  and 
magnificent,  made  a  fitting  pendant  to  the  green  gown; 
but  unfortunately  his  thoughts  were  of  the  color  of  his 
coat.  Why  had  they  not  seated  him  beside  the  bride, 
as  was  his  right  ?  Why  had  they  given  his  seat  to  young 
Fromont?  And  there  was  old  Gardinois,  the  Fro- 
m.onts'  grandfather,  what  business  had  he  by  Sidonie's 
side?  Ah!  that  was  how  it  was  to  be!  Everything 
for  the  Fromonts  and  nothing  for  the  Chebes!  And  yet 
people  are  amazed  that  there  are  such  things  as  revo- 
lutions! 

Luckily  the  little  man  had  by  his  side,  to  vent  his 
anger  upon,  his  friend  Delobelle,  an  old,  retired  actor, 

[5] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

who  listened  to  him  with  his  serene  and  majestic  holi- 
day countenance. 

Strangely  enough,  the  bride  herself  had  something 
of  that  same  expression.  On  that  pretty  and  youthful 
face,  which  happiness  enlivened  without  making  glad, 
appeared  indications  of  some  secret  preoccupation; 
and,  at  times,  the  comers  of  her  lips  quivered  with  a 
smile,  as  if  she  were  talking  to  herself. 

With  that  same  Httle  smile  she  repHed  to  the  some- 
what pronounced  pleasantries  of  Grandfather  Gardi- 
nois,  who  sat  by  her  side. 

"This  Sidonie,on  my  word!"  said  the  good  man,  with 
a  laugh.  "When  I  think  that  not  two  months  ago  she 
was  talking  about  going  into  a  convent.  We  all  know 
what  sort  of  convents  such  minxes  as  she  go  to!  As 
the  saying  is  in  our  province:  The  Convent  of  Saint 
Joseph,  jour  shoes  under  the  bed! " 

And  everybody  at  the  table  laughed  heartily  at  the 
rustic  jests  of  the  old  Berrichon  peasant,  whose  colossal 
fortune  filled  the  place  of  manliness,  of  education,  of 
kindness  of  heart,  but  not  of  wit;  for  he  had  plenty  of 
that,  the  rascal — more  than  all  his  bourgeois  fellow- 
guests  together.  Among  the  very  rare  persons  who 
inspired  a  s)rmpathetic  feeling  in  his  breast,  little 
Chebe,  whom  he  had  known  as  an  urchin,  appealed 
paticularly  to  him;  and  she,  for  her  part,  having  be- 
come rich  too  recently  not  to  venerate  wealth,  talked 
to  her  right-hand  neighbor  with  a  very  perceptible  air 
of  respect  and  coquetry. 

With  her  left-hand  neighbor,  on  the  contrary, 
Georges  Fromont,  her  husband's  partner,  she  exhibited 

[61 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

the  utmost  reserve.  Their  conversation  was  restricted 
to  the  ordinary  courtesies  of  the  table ;  indeed  there  was 
a  sort  of  affectation  of  indifference  between  them. 

Suddenly  there  was  that  little  commotion  among  the 
guests  which  indicates  that  they  are  about  to  rise :  the 
rustling  of  silk,  the  moving  of  chairs,  the  last  words  of 
conversations,  the  completion  of  a  laugh,  and  in  that 
half- silence  Madame  Chebe,  who  had  become  com- 
municative, observed  in  a  very  loud  tone  to  a  pro- 
vincial cousin,  who  was  gazing  in  an  ecstasy  of  admi- 
ration at  the  newly  made  bride's  reserved  and 
tranquil  demeanor,  as  she  stood  with  her  arm  in 
Monsieur  Gardinois's: 

"You  see  that  child,  cousin — well,  no  one  has  ever 
been  able  to  find  out  what  her  thoughts  were." 

Thereupon  the  whole  party  rose  and  repaired  to  the 
grand  salon. 

While  the  guests  invited  for  the  ball  were  arriving 
and  mingling  with  the  dinner-guests,  while  the  orches- 
tra was  tuning  up,  while  the  cavaliers,  eyeglass  in 
position,  strutted  before  the  impatient,  white-gowned 
damsels,  the  bridegroom,  awed  by  so  great  a  throng, 
had  taken  refuge  with  his  friend  Planus — Sigismond 
Planus,  cashier  of  the  house  of  Fromont  for  thirty  years 
— in  that  little  gallery  decorated  with  flowers  and  hung 
with  a  paper  representing  shrubbery  and  clambering 
vines,  which  forms  a  sort  of  background  of  artificial 
verdure  to  Vefour's  gilded  salons. 

"Sigismond,  old  friend — I  am  very  happy." 

And  Sigismond  too  was  happy;  but  Risler  did  not 
give  him  time  to  say  so.    Now  that  he  was  no  longer 

[7] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

in  dread  of  weeping  before  his  guests,  all  the  joy  in  his 
heart  overflowed. 

"Just  think  of  it,  my  friend! — It's  so  extraordinary 
that  a  young  girl  like  Sidonie  would  consent  to  marry 
me.  For  you  know  I'm  not  handsome.  I  didn't  need 
to  have  that  impudent  creature  tell  me  so  this  morning 
to  know  it.  And  then  I'm  forty-two — and  she  such  a 
dear  little  thing!  There  were  so  many  others  she 
might  have  chosen,  among  the  youngest  and  the  richest, 
to  say  nothing  of  my  poor  Frantz,  who  loved  her  so. 
But,  no,  she  preferred  her  old  Risler.  And  it  came 
about  so  strangely.  For  a  long  time  I  noticed  that  she 
was  sad,  greatly  changed.  I  felt  sure  there  was  some 
disappointment  in  love  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Her 
mother  and  I  looked  about,  and  we  cudgelled  our 
brains  to  find  out  what  it  could  be.  One  morning 
Madame  Chebe  came  into  my  room  weeping,  and 
said,  "You  are  the  man  she  loves,  my  dear  friend!" 
— And  I  was  the  man — I  was  the  man!  Bless  my 
soul!  Whoever  would  have  suspected  such  a  thing? 
And  to  think  that  in  the  same  year  I  had  those  two 
great  pieces  of  good  fortune — a  partnership  in  the 
house  of  Fromont  and  married  to  Sidonie— Oh!" 

At  that  moment,  to  the  strains  of  a  giddy,  languish- 
ing waltz,  a  couple  whirled  into  the  small  salon.  They 
were  Risler's  bride  and  his  partner,  Georges  Fromont. 
Equally  young  and  attractive,  they  were  talking  in 
undertones,  confining  their  words  within  the  narrow 
circle  of  the  waltz. 

"You  lie!"  said  Sidonie,  slightly  pale,  but  with  the 
same  little  smile. 

[8] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

And  the  other,  paler  than  she,  replied: 

"I  do  not  lie.  It  was  my  uncle  who  insisted  upon 
this  marriage.  He  was  dying — you  had  gone  away. 
I  dared  not  say  no." 

Risler,  at  a  distance,  gazed  at  them  in  admiration. 

"How  pretty  she  is!    Hov/  well  they  dance!" 

But,  when  they  spied  him,  the  dancers  separated,  and 
Sidonie  walked  quickly  to  him. 

"What!  You  here?  What  are  you  doing?  They 
are  looking  everywhere  for  you.  Why  aren't  you  in 
there?" 

As  she  spoke  she  retied  his  cravat  v/ith  a  pretty,  im- 
patient gesture.  That  enchanted  Risler,  who  smiled 
at  Sigismond  from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  too  overjoyed 
at  feeling  the  touch  of  that  little  gloved  hand  on  his 
neck,  to  notice  that  she  was  trembling  to  the  ends  of 
her  slender  fingers. 

"Give  me  your  arm,"  she  said  to  him,  and  they  re- 
turned together  to  the  salons.  The  white  bridal  gown 
with  its  long  train  made  the  badly  cut,  awkwardly  worn 
black  coat  appear  even  more  uncouth;  but  a  coat  can 
not  be  retied  like  a  cravat;  she  must  needs  take  it  as 
it  was.  As  they  passed  along,  returning  the  salutations 
of  all  the  guests  who  were  so  eager  to  smile  upon  them, 
Sidonie  had  a  momentary  thrill  of  pride,  of  satisfied 
vanity.  Unhappily  it  did  not  last.  In  a  comer  of  the 
room  sat  a  young  and  attractive  woman  whom  nobody 
invited  to  dance,  but  who  looked  on  at  the  dances  with 
a  placid  eye,  illumined  by  all  the  joy  of  a  first  maternity. 
As  soon  as  he  saw  her,  Risler  walked  straight  to  the  cor- 
ner where  she  sat  and  compelled  Sidonie  to  sit  beside 

[9] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

her.  Needless  to  say  that  it  was  Madame  "Chorche." 
To  whom  else  would  he  have  spoken  with  such  af- 
fectionate respect?  In  what  other  hand  than  hers 
could  he  have  placed  his  little  Sidonie's,  saying:  "You 
will  love  her  dearly,  won't  you?  You  are  so  good. 
She  needs  your  advice,  your  knowledge  of  the  world." 

"Why,  my  dear  Risler,"  Madame  Georges  replied, 
"  Sidonie  and  I  are  old  friends.  We  have  reason  to  be 
fond  of  each  other  still." 

And  her  calm,  straightforward  glance  strove  unsuc- 
cessfully to  meet  that  of  her  old  friend. 

With  his  ignorance  of  women,  and  his  habit  of  treat- 
ing Sidonie  as  a  child,  Risler  continued  in  the  same 
tone : 

"Take  her  for  your  model,  little  one.  There  are  not 
two  people  in  the  world  like  Madame  Chorche.  She 
has  her  poor  father's  heart.     A  true  Fromont!" 

Sidonie,  with  her  eyes  cast  down,  bowed  without 
replying,  while  an  imperceptible  shudder  ran  from  the 
tip  of  her  satin  shoe  to  the  topmost  bit  of  orange-blos- 
som in  her  crown.  But  honest  Risler  saw  nothing. 
The  excitement,  the  dancing,  the  music,  the  flowers, 
the  lights  made  him  drunk,  made  him  mad.  He  be- 
lieved that  every  one  breathed  the  same  atmosphere 
of  bliss  beyond  compare  which  enveloped  him.  He 
had  no  perception  of  the  rivalries,  the  petty  hatreds 
that  met  and  passed  one  another  above  all  those  be- 
jewelled foreheads. 

He  did  not  notice  Delobelle,  standing  with  his  elbow 
on  the  mantel,  one  hand  in  the  armhole  of  his  waist- 
coat and  his  hat  upon  his  hip,  weary  of  his  eternal 

[lo] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

attitudinizing,  while  the  hours  slipped  by  and  no  one 
thought  of  utilizing  his  talents.  He  did  not  notice  M. 
Chebe,  who  was  prowling  darkly  between  the  two 
doors,  more  incensed  than  ever  against  the  Fromonts. 
Oh!  those  Fromonts! — How  large  a  place  they  filled 
at  that  wedding !  They  were  all  there  with  their  wives, 
their  children,  their  friends,  their  friends'  friends. 
One  would  have  said  that  one  of  themselves  was  being 
married.  Who  had  a  word  to  say  of  the  Rislers  or  the 
Chebes?  Why,  he — he,  the  father,  had  not  even  been 
presented! — And  the  little  man's  rage  was  redoubled  by 
the  attitude  of  IVIadame  Chebe,  smiling  maternally 
upon  one  and  all  in  her  scarab-hued  dress. 

Furthermore,  there  were  at  this,  as  at  almost  all 
wedding-parties,  two  distinct  currents  which  came  to- 
gether but  without  mingling.  One  of  the  two  soon 
gave  place  to  the  other.  The  Fromonts,  who  irritated 
Monsieur  Chebe  so  much  and  who  formed  the  aristoc- 
racy of  the  ball,  the  president  of  the  Chamber  of  Com- 
merce, the  syndic  of  the  solicitors,  a  famous  chocolate- 
manufacturer  and  member  of  the  Corps  Legislatif ,  and 
the  old  millionaire  Gardinois,  all  retired  shortly  after 
midnight.  Georges  Fromont  and  his  wife  entered  their 
carriage  behind  them.  Only  the  Risler  and  Chebe 
party  remained,  and  the  festivity  at  once  changed  its 
aspect,  becoming  more  uproarious. 

The  illustrious  Delobelle,  disgusted  to  see  that  no 
one  called  upon  him  for  anything,  decided  to  call  upon 
himself  for  something,  and  began  in  a  voice  as  resonant 
as  a  gong  the  monologue  from  Ruy  Bias:  "Good  appe- 
tite, Messieurs!" — while  the  guests  thronged  to  the 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

buffet,  spread  with  chocolate  and  glasses  of  punch. 
Inexpensive  little  costumes  were  displayed  upon  the 
benches,  overjoyed  to  produce  their  due  effect  at  last; 
and  here  and  there  divers  young  shop-clerks,  consumed 
with  conceit,  amused  themselves  by  venturing  upon  a 
quadrille. 

The  bride  had  long  wished  to  take  her  leave.  At 
last  she  disappeared  with  Risler  and  Madame  Chebe. 
As  for  Monsieur  Chebe,  who  had  recovered  all  his  im- 
portance, it  was  impossible  to  induce  him  to  go.  Some 
one  must  be  there  to  do  the  honors,  deuce  take  it !  And 
I  assure  you  that  the  little  man  assumed  the  responsi- 
bility! He  was  flushed,  lively,  frolicsome,  noisy,  almost 
seditious.  On  the  floor  below  he  could  be  heard  talk- 
ing politics  with  Vefour's  head-waiter,  and  making  most 
audacious  statements. 

Through  the  deserted  streets  the  wedding-carriage, 
the  tired  coachman  liolding  the  vvhite  reins  somewhat 
loosely,  rolled  heavily  toward  the  Marais. 

Madame  Chebe  talked  continuously,  enumerating  all 
the  splendors  of  that  memorable  day,  rhapsodizing 
especially  over  the  dinner,  the  commonplace  menu  of 
which  had  been  to  her  the  highest  display  of  magnifi- 
cence. Sidonie  mused  in  the  darkness  of  the  carriage, 
and  Risler,  sitting  .opposite  her,  even  though  he  no 
longer  said,  "I  am  very  happy,"  continued  to  think  it 
with  all  his  heart.  Once  he  tried  to  take  possession  of 
a  little  white  hand  that  rested  against  the  closed  win- 
dow, but  it  was  hastily  withdrawn,  and  he  sat  there 
without  moving,  lost  in  mute  admiration. 

They  drove  through  the  Halles  and  the  Rue  de 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Rambuteau,  thronged  with  kitchen-gardeners'  wagons; 
and,  near  the  end  of  the  Rue  des  Francs-Bourgeois, 
they  turned  the  comer  of  the  Archives  into  the  Rue  de 
Braque.  There  they  stopped  first,  and  Madame 
Chebe  alighted  at  her  door,  which  was  too  narrow  for 
the  magnificent  green  silk  frock,  so  that  it  vanished  in 
the  hall  with  rustlings  of  revolt  and  with  all  its  folds 
muttering.  A  few  minutes  later,  a  tall,  massive  portal 
on  the  Rue  des  Vieilles-IIaudriettes,  bearing  on  the 
escutcheon  that  betrayed  the  former  family  mansion, 
beneath  half-effaced  armorial  bearings,  a  sign  in  blue 
letters,  Wall  Papers,  was  thrown  wide  open  to  allow 
the  wedding- carriage  to  pass  through. 

Thereupon  the  bride,  hitherto  motionless  and  like 
one  asleep,  seemed  to  wake  suddenly,  and  if  all  the 
lights  in  the  vast  buildings,  workshops  or  storehouses, 
which  surrounded  the  courtyard,  had  not  been  extin- 
guished, Risler  might  have  seen  that  pretty,  enigmati- 
cal face  suddenly  Hghted  by  a  smile  of  triumph.  The 
wheels  revolved  less  noisily  on  the  fine  gravel  of  a  gar- 
den, and  soon  stopped  before  the  stoop  of  a  small  house 
of  two  floors.  It  was  there  that  the  young  Fromonts 
lived,  and  Risler  and  his  wife  were  to  take  up  their 
abode  on  the  floor  above.  The  house  had  an  aristo- 
cratic air.  Flourishing  commerce  avenged  itself  therein 
for  the  dismal  street  and  the  out-of-the-way  quarter. 
There  was  a  carpet  on  the  stairway  leading  to  their 
apartment,  and  on  all  sides  shone  the  gleaming  white- 
ness of  marble,  the  reflection  of  mirrors  and  of  pol- 
ished copper. 

While  Risler  was  parading  his  delight  through  all 

[x3] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

the  rooms  of  the  new  apartment,  Sidonie  remained 
alone  in  her  bedroom.  By  the  light  of  the  little  blue 
lamp  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  she  glanced  first  of  all 
at  the  mirror,  which  gave  back  her  reflection  from 
head  to  foot,  at  all  her  luxurious  surroundings,  so  un- 
famihar  to  her;  then,  instead  of  going  to  bed,  she 
opened  the  window  and  stood  leaning  against  the  sill, 
motionless  as  a  statue. 

The  night  was  clear  and  warm.  She  could  see  dis- 
tinctly the  whole  factory,  its  innumerable  unshaded 
windows,  its  glistening  panes,  its  tall  chimney  losing 
itself  in  the  depths  of  the  sky,  and  nearer  at  hand  the 
lovely  little  garden  against  the  ancient  wall  of  the  for- 
mer mansion.  All  about  were  gloomy,  miserable  roofs 
and  squaHd  streets.  Suddenly  she  started.  Yonder, 
in  the  darkest,  the  ugliest  of  all  those  attics  crowding 
so  closely  together,  leaning  against  one  another,  as  if 
overweighted  with  misery,  a  fifth-floor  window  stood 
wide  open,  showing  only  darkness  within.  She  recog- 
nized it  at  once.  It  was  the  window  of  the  landing  on 
which  her  parents  lived. 

The  window  on  the  landing! 

How  many  things  the  mere  name  recalled!  How 
many  hours,  how  many  days  she  had  passed  there, 
leaning  on  that  damp  sill,  without  rail  or  balcony,  look- 
ing toward  the  factory.  At  that  moment  she  fancied 
th&,t  she  could  see  up  yonder  little  Chebe's  ragged 
person,  and  in  the  frame  made  by  that  poor  window,  her 
whole  child  life,  her  deplorable  youth  as  a  Parisian 
street  arab,  passed  before  her  eyes. 


[•4] 


CHAPTER  II 

LITTLE  CHEBE'S   STORY 

N  Paris  the  common  landing  is  like 
an  additional  room,  an  enlargement 
of  their  abodes,  to  poor  families  con- 
fined in  their  too  small  apartments. 
They  go  there  to  get  a  breath  of  air 
in  summer,  and  there  the  women  talk 
and  the  children  play. 

When  little  Chebe  made  too  much 
noise  in  the  house,  her  mother  would  say  to  her:  "There 
there!  you  bother  me,  go  and  play  on  the  landing." 
And  the  child  would  go  quickly  enough. 

This  landing,  on  the  upper  floor  of  an  old  house  in 
which  space  had  not  been  spared,  formed  a  sort  of 
large  lobby,  with  a  high  ceihng,  guarded  on  the  stair- 
case side  by  a  wrought-iron  rail,  hghted  by  a  large 
window  which  looked  out  upon  roofs,  courtyards,  and 
other  windows,  and,  farther  away,  upon  the  garden  of 
the  Fromont  factory,  which  was  like  a  green  oasis 
among  the  huge  old  walls. 

There  was  nothing  very  cheerful  about  it,  but  the 
child  liked  it  much  better  than  her  own  home.    Their 
rooms  were  dismal,  especially  when  it  rained  and  Fer- 
dinand did  not  go  out. 
With  his  brain  always  smoking  with  new  ideas, 

[15] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

which  unfortunately  never  came  to  anything,  Ferdi- 
nand Ch^be  was  one  of  those  slothful,  project-devising 
bourgeois  of  whom  there  are  so  many  in  Paris.  His 
wife,  whom  he  had  dazzled  at  first,  had  soon  detected 
his  utter  insignificance,  and  had  ended  by  enduring 
patiently  and  with  unchanged  demeanor  his  continual 
dreams  of  wealth  and  the  disasters  that  immediately 
followed  them. 

Of  the  dot  of  eighty  thousand  francs  which  she  had 
brought  him,  and  which  he  had  squandered  in  his 
absurd  schemes,  only  a  small  annuity  remained,  which 
still  gave  them  a  position  of  some  importance  in  the  eyes 
of  their  neighbors,  as  did  Madame  Chebe's  cashmere, 
which  had  been  rescued  from  every  wreck,  her  wedding 
laces  and  two  diamond  studs,  very  tiny  and  very 
modest,  which  Sidonie  sometimes  begged  her  mother 
to  show  her,  as  they  lay  in  the  drawer  of  the  bureau, 
in  an  old-fashioned  white  velvet  case,  on  which  the 
jeweller's  name,  in  gilt  letters,  thirty  years  old,  was 
gradually  fading.  That  was  the  only  bit  of  luxury  in 
that  poor  annuitant's  abode. 

For  a  very  long  time  M.  Chebe  had  sought  a  place 
which  would  enable  him  to  eke  out  their  slender  in- 
come. But  he  sought  it  only  in  what  he  called  stand- 
ing business,  his  health  forbidding  any  occupation  that 
required  him  to  be  seated. 

It  seemed  that,  soon  after  his  marriage,  when  he  was 
in  a  flourishing  business  and  had  a  horse  and  tilbury 
of  his  own,  the  little  man  had  had  one  day  a  serious 
fall.  That  fall,  to  which  he  referred  upon  every  occei^ 
sion,  served  as  an  excuse  for  his  indolence, 

[J6] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

One  could  not  be  with  M.  Chebe  five  minutes  before 
he  would  say  in  a  confidential  one : 

"You  know  of  the  accident  that  happened  to  the 
Due  d'Orleans?" 

And  then  he  would  add,  tapping  his  little  bald  pate : 
"The  same  thing  happened  to  me  in  my  youth." 

Since  that  famous  fall  any  sort  of  office  work  made 
him  dizzy,  and  he  had  found  himself  inexorably  con- 
fined to  standing  business.  Thus,  he  had  been  in  turn 
a  broker  in  wines,  in  books,  in  truffles,  in  clocks,  and 
in  many  other  things  beside.  Unluckily,  he  tired  of 
everything,  never  considered  his  position  sufficiently 
exalted  for  a  former  business  man  with  a  tilbury,  and, 
by  gradual  degrees,  by  dint  of  deeming  every  sort  of 
occupation  beneath  him,  he  had  grown  old  and  incapa- 
ble, a  genuine  idler  with  low  tastes,  a  good-for-nothing. 

Artists  are  often  rebuked  for  their  oddities,  for  the 
liberties  they  take  with  nature,  for  that  horror  of  the 
conventional  which  impels  them  to  follow  by-paths; 
but  who  can  ever  describe  all  the  absurd  fancies,  all 
the  idiotic  eccentricities  with  which  a  bourgeois  without 
occupation  can  succeed  in  filling  the  emptiness  of  his 
life?  M.  Chebe  imposed  upon  himself  certain  rules 
concerning  his  goings  and  comings,  and  his  walks 
abroad.  While  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol  was  being 
built,  he  went  twice  a  day  "to  see  how  it  was  getting 
on." 

No  one  knew  better  than  he  the  fashionable  shops 
and  the  bargains;  and  very  often  Madame  Chebe,  an- 
noyed to  see  her  husband's  idiotic  face  at  the  window 
while  she  was  energetically  mending  the  family  linen, 

2  [17] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

would  rid  herself  of  him  by  giving  him  an  errand  to  do. 
"You  know  that  place,  on  the  comer  of  such  a  street, 
where  they  sell  such  nice  cakes.  They  would  be  nice 
for  our  dessert." 

And  the  husband  would  go  out,  saunter  along  the 
boulevard  by  the  shops,  wait  for  the  omnibus,  and  pass 
half  the  day  in  procuring  two  cakes,  worth  three  sous, 
which  he  would  bring  home  in  triumph,  wiping  his 
forehead. 

M.  Chebe  adored  the  summer,  the  Sundays,  the 
great  foot-races  in  the  dust  at  Clamart  or  Romain- 
ville,  the  excitement  of  holidays  and  the  crowd.  He 
was  one  of  those  who  went  about  for  a  whole  week 
before  the  fifteenth  of  August,  gazing  at  the  black 
lamps  and  their  frames,  and  the  scaffoldings.  Nor  did 
his  wife  complain.  At  all  events,  she  no  longer  had 
that  chronic  grumbler  prowling  around  her  chair  for 
whole  days,  with  schemes  for  gigantic  enterprises,  com- 
binations that  missed  fire  in  advance,  lamentations 
concerning  the  past,  and  a  fixed  determination  not  to 
work  at  anything  to  earn  money. 

She  no  longer  earned  anything  herself,  poor  woman; 
but  she  knew  so  well  how  to  save,  her  wonderful  econ- 
omy made  up  so  completely  for  everything  else,  that 
absolute  want,  although  a  near  neighbor  of  such  im- 
pecuniosity  as  theirs,  never  succeeded  in  making  its 
way  into  those  three  rooms,  which  were  always  neat 
and  clean,  or  in  destroying  the  carefully  mended  gar- 
ments or  the  old  furniture  so  well  concealed  beneath 
its  coverings. 

Opposite   the    Chebes'  door,  whose  copper   knob 

[i8] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

gleamed  in  bourgeois  fashion  upon  the  landing,  were 
two  other  and  smaller  ones. 

On  the  first,  a  visiting-card,  held  in  place  by  four 
nails,  according  to  the  custom  in  vogue  among  indus- 
trial artists,  bore  the  name  of 

RISLER 

DESIGNER  OE   PATTERNS. 

On  the  other  was  a  small  square  of  leather,  with  these 
words  in  gilt  letters: 

MESDAMES  DELOBELLE 

BIRDS   AND   INSECTS    FOR   ORNAMENT. 

The  Delobelles'  door  was  often  open,  disclosing  a 
large  room  with  a  brick  floor,  where  two  women, 
mother  and  daughter,  the  latter  almost  a  child,  each 
as  weary  and  as  pale  as  the  other,  worked  at  one  of  the 
thousand  fanciful  little  trades  which  go  to  make  up 
what  is  called  the  Articles  de  Paris. 

It  was  then  the  fashion  to  ornament  hats  and  ball- 
gowns with  the  lovely  little  insects  from  South  Amer- 
ica that  have  the  brilliant  coloring  of  jewels  and  reflect 
the  light  like  diamonds.  The  Delobelles  had  adopted 
that  specialty. 

A  wholesale  house,  to  which  consignments  were  made 
directly  from  the  Antilles,  sent  to  them,  unopened,  long, 
light  boxes  from  which,  when  the  lid  was  removed, 
arose  a  faint  odor,  a  dust  of  arsenic  through  which 
gleamed  the  piles  of  insects,  impaled  before  being 
shipped,  the  birds  packed  closely  together,  their  wings 
held  in  place  by  a  strip  of  thin  paper.    They  must  all 

[19] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

be  mounted — the  insects .  quivering  upon  brass  wire, 
the  humming-birds  with  their  feathers  ruffled; — they 
must  be  cleansed  and  poHshed,  the  break  in  a  bright- 
red  claw  repaired  with  a  silk  thread,  dead  eyes  replaced 
with  sparkling  pearls,  and  the  insect  or  the  bird  restored 
to  an  appearance  of  life  and  grace. 

The  mother  prepared  the  work  under  her  daughter's 
direction ;  for  Desiree,  though  she  was  still  a  mere  girl, 
was  endowed  with  exquisite  taste,  with  a  fairy-Hke 
power  of  invention,  and  no  one  could  insert  two  pearl 
eyes  in  those  tiny  heads  or  spread  their  lifeless  wings 
so  deftly  as  she. 

Happy  or  unhappy,  Desiree  always  worked  with  the 
same  energy.  From  dawn  until  well  into  the  night  the 
table  was  covered  with  work.  At  the  last  ray  of  day- 
light, when  the  factory  bells  were  ringing  in  all  the 
neighboring  yards,  Madame  Delobelle  lighted  the 
lamp,  and  after  a  more  than  frugal  repast  they  re- 
turned to  their  work. 

Those  two  indefatigable  women  had  one  object,  one 
fixed  idea,  which  prevented  them  from  feeling  the  bur- 
den of  enforced  vigils.  That  idea  was  the  dramatic 
renown  of  the  illustrious  Delobelle. 

After  he  had  left  the  provincial  theatres  to  pursue 
his  profession  in  Paris,  Delobelle  waited  for  an  intelli- 
gent manager,  the  ideal  and  providential  manager  who 
discovers  geniuses,  to  seek  him  out  and  offer  him  a 
role  suited  to  his  talents.  He  might,  perhaps,  especially 
at  the  beginning,  have  obtained  a  passably  good  en- 
gagement at  a  theatre  of  the  third  order,  but  Delobelle 
did  not  choose  to  lower  himself. 

[20] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

He  preferred  to  wait,  to  struggle,  as  he  said!  And 
this  is  how  he  awaited  the  struggle. 

In  the  morning  in  his  bedroom,  often  in  his  bed,  he 
rehearsed  roles  in  his  former  repertory;  and  the  Delo- 
belle  ladies  trembled  with  emotion  when  they  heard 
behind  the  partition  tirades  from  Antony  or  the  Medecin 
des  Enjants,  declaimed  in  a  sonorous  voice  that  blended 
with  the  thousand-and-one  noises  of  the  great  Parisian 
bee-hive.  Then,  after  breakfast,  the  actor  would  sally 
forth  for  the  day;  would  go  to  "do  his  boulevard,"  that 
is  to  say,  to  saunter  to  and  fro  between  the  Chateau 
d'Eau  and  the  Madeline,  with  a  toothpick  in  the  cor- 
ner of  his  mouth,  his  hat  a  little  on  one  side — always 
gloved,  and  brushed,  and  glossy. 

That  question  of  dress  was  of  great  importance  in 
his  eyes.  It  was  one  of  the  greatest  elements  of  suc- 
cess, a  bait  for  the  manager — the  famous,  intelligent 
manager — who  never  would  dream  of  engaging  a  thread- 
bare, shabbily  dressed  man. 

So  the  Delobelle  ladies  took  good  care  that  he  lacked 
nothing;  and  you  can  imagine  how  many  birds  and 
insects  it  required  to  fit  out  a  blade  of  that  temper! 
The  actor  thought  it  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world. 

In  his  view,  the  labors,  the  privations  of  his  wife  and 
daughter  were  not,  strictly  speaking,  for  his  benefit,  but 
for  the  benefit  of  that  mysterious  and  unknown  genius, 
whose  trustee  he  considered  himself  to  be. 

There  was  a  certain  analogy  between  the  position  of 
the  Chebe  family  and  that  of  the  Delobelles.  But  the 
latter  household  was  less  depressing.    The  Chebes  felt 

[21] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

that  their  petty  annuitant  existence  was  fastened  upon 
them  forever,  with  no  prospect  of  amelioration,  always 
the  same;  whereas,  in  the  actor's  family,  hope  and 
illusion  often  opened  magnificent  vistas. 

The  Ch^bes  were  like  people  living  in  a  blind  alley; 
the  Delobelles  on  a  foul  Httle  street,  where  there  was 
no  light  or  air,  but  where  a  great  boulevard  might 
some  day  be  laid  out.  And  then,  too,  Madame  Chebe 
no  longer  beheved  in  her  husband,  whereas,  by  virtue 
of  that  single  magic  word,  "Art!"  her  neighbor  never 
had  doubted  hers. 

And  yet  for  years  and  years  Monsieur  Delobelle  had 
been  unavailingly  drinking  vermouth  with  dramatic 
agents,  absinthe  with  leaders  of  claques,  bitters  with 
vaudevillists,  dramatists,  and  the  famous  what's-his- 
name,  author  of  several  great  dramas.  Engagements 
did  not  always  follow.  So  that,  without  once  appear- 
ing on  the  boards,  the  poor  man  had  progressed  from 
jeune  premier  to  grand  premier  roles,  then  to  the  finan- 
ciers, then  to  the  noble  fathers,  then  to  the  buffoons — 

He  stopped  there! 

Qn  two  or  three  occasions  his  friends  had  obtained 
for  him  a  chance  to  earn  his  living  as  manager  of  a  club 
or  a  cafe,  as  an  inspector  in  great  warehouses,  at  the 
Phares  de  la  Bastille  or  the  Colosse  de  Rhodes.  All  that 
was  necessary  was  to  have  good  manners.  Delobelle 
was  not  lacking  in  that  respect,  God  knows!  And  yet 
every  suggestion  that  was  made  to  him  the  great  man 
met  with  a  heroic  refusal. 

"I  have  no  right  to  abandon  the  stage!"  he  would 
then  assert. 

[22] 


FHOMONT  AND  RISLER 

In  the  mouth  of  that  poor  devil,  who  had  not  set 
foot  on  the  boards  for  years,  it  was  irresistibly  com- 
ical. But  one  lost  the  inclination  to  laugh  when  one 
saw  his  wife  and  his  daughter  swallowing  particles  of 
arsenic  day  and  night,  and  heard  them  repeat  em- 
phatically as  they  broke  their  needles  against  the  brass 
wire  with  which  the  little  birds  were  mounted: 

*'No!  no!  Monsieur  Delobelle  has  no  right  to  aban- 
don the  stage." 

Happy  man,  whose  bulging  eyes,  always  smiling  con- 
descendingly, and  whose  habit  of  reigning  on  the  stage 
had  procured  for  him  for  life  that  exceptional  position 
of  a  spoiled  and  admired  child-king!  When  he  left  the 
house,  the  shopkeepers  on  the  Rue  des  Francs-Bour- 
geois, with  the  predilection  of  the  Parisian  for  every- 
thing and  everybody  connected  with  the  theatre,  saluted 
him  respectfully.  He  was  always  so  well  dressed! 
And  then  he  was  so  kind,  so  obliging!  When  you 
think  that  every  Saturday  night,  he,  Ruy  Bias,  Antony, 
Raphael  in  the  Filles  de  Marbre,  Andres  in  the  Pirates 
de  la  Savane,  sallied  forth,  with  a  bandbox  under  his 
arm,  to  carry  the  week's  work  of  his  wife  and  daughter 
to  a  flower  establishment  on  the  Rue  St.-Denis! 

Why,  even  when  performing  such  a  commission  as 
that,  this  devil  of  a  fellow  had  such  nobility  of  bearing, 
such  native  dignity,  that  the  young  woman  whose  duty 
it  was  to  make  up  the  Delobelle  account  was  sorely 
embarrassed  to  hand  to  such  an  irreproachable  gentle- 
man the  paltry  stipend  so  laboriously  earned. 

On  those  evenings,  by  the  way,  the  actor  did  not 
return  home  to  dinner.    The  women  were  forewarned. 

[23] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

He  always  met  some  old  comrade  on  the  boulevard, 
some  unlucky  devil  like  himself — there  are  so  many  of 
them  in  that  sacred  profession! — whom  he  entertained 
at  a  restaurant  or  cafe.  Then,  with  scrupulous  fidelity 
— and  very  grateful  they  were  to  him — he  would  carry 
the  rest  of  the  money  home,  sometimes  with  a  bouquet 
for  his  wife  or  a  little  present  for  Desiree,  a  nothing,  a 
mere  trifle.  What  would  you  have?  Those  are  the 
customs  of  the  stage.  It  is  such  a  simple  matter  in  a 
melodrama  to  toss  a  handful  of  louis  through  the 
window! 

"Ho!  varlet,  take  this  purse  and  hie  thee  hence  to 
tell  thy  mistress  I  await  her  coming." 

And  so,  notwithstanding  their  marvellous  courage, 
and  although  their  trade  was  quite  lucrative,  the  Delo- 
belles  often  found  themselves  in  straitened  circum- 
stances, especially  in  the  dull  season  of  the  Articles  de 
Paris. 

Luckily  the  excellent  Risler  was  at  hand,  always 
ready  to  accommodate  his  friends. 

Guillaume  Risler,  the  third  tenant  on  the  landing, 
lived  with  his  brother  Frantz,  who  was  fifteen  years  his 
junior.  The  two  young  Swiss,  tall  and  fair,  strong  and 
ruddy,  brought  into  the  dismal,  hard-working  house 
glimpses  of  the  country  and  of  health.  The  elder  was 
a  draughtsman  at  the  Fromont  factory  and  was  paying 
for  the  education  of  his  brother,  who  attended  Chap- 
tal's  lectures,  pending  his  admission  to  the  Ecole  Cen- 
trale. 

On  his  arrival  at  Paris,  being  sadly  perplexed  as  to 
the  installation  of  his  little  household,  Guillaume  had 

[24] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

derived  from  his  neighbors,  Mesdames  Chebe  and 
Dclobelle,  advice  and  information  which  were  an  in- 
dispensable aid  to  that  ingenuous,  timid,  somewhat 
heavy  youth,  embarrassed  by  his  foreign  accent  and 
manner.  After  a  brief  period  of  neighborhood  and 
mutual  services,  the  Risler  brothers  formed  a  part  of 
both  families. 

On  holidays  places  were  always  made  for  them  at 
one  table  or  the  other,  and  it  was  a  great  satisfaction 
to  the  two  exiles  to  find  in  those  poor  households, 
modest  and  straitened  as  they  were,  a  taste  of  affection 
and  family  life. 

The  wages  of  the  designer,  who  was  very  clever  at 
his  trade,  enabled  him  to  be  of  service  to  the  Delobelles 
on  rent-day,  and  to  make  his  appearance  at  the 
Chebes'  in  the  guise  of  the  rich  uncle,  always  laden 
with  surprises  and  presents,  so  that  the  little  girl,  as 
soon  as  she  saw  him,  would  explore  his  pockets  and 
chmb  on  his  knees. 

On  Sunday  he  would  take  them  all  to  the  theatre; 
and  almost  every  evening  he  would  go  with  Messieurs 
Chebe  and  Delobelle  to  a  brewery  on  the  Rue  Blondel, 
where  he  regaled  them  with  beer  and  pretzels.  Beer 
and  pretzels  were  his  only  vice. 

For  his  own  part,  he  knew  no  greater  bliss  than  to  sit 
before  a  foaming  tankard,  between  his  two  friends, 
listening  to  their  talk,  and  taking  part  only  by  a  loud 
laugh  or  a  shake  of  the  head  in  their  conversation, 
which  was  usually  a  long  succession  of  grievances 
against  society. 

A  childlike  shyness,  and  the  Germanisms  of  speech 

[25] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

which  he  never  had  laid  aside  in  his  Hfe  of  absorbing 
toil,  embarrassed  him  much  in  giving  expression  to  his 
ideas.  Moreover,  his  friends  overawed  him.  They 
had  in  respect  to  him  the  tremendous  superiority  of  the 
man  who  does  nothing  over  the  man  who  works;  and 
M.  Chebe,  less  generous  than  Delobelle,  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  make  him  feel  it.  He  was  very  lofty  with  him, 
was  M.  Chebe!  In  his  opinion,  a  man  who  worked, 
as  Risler  did,  ten  hours  a  day,  was  incapable,  when 
he  left  his  work,  of  expressing  an  intelligent  idea. 
Sometimes  the  designer,  coming  home  worried  from  the 
factory,  would  prepare  to  spend  the  night  over  some 
pressing  work.  You  should  have  seen  M.  Chebe 's 
scandalized  expression  then ! 

*' Nobody  could  make  me  follow  such  a  business!" 
he  would  say,  expanding  his  chest,  and  he  would  add, 
looking  at  Risler  with  the  air  of  a  physician  making  a 
professional  call,  "Just  wait  till  you've  had  one  severe 
attack." 

Delobelle  was  not  so  fierce,  but  he  adopted  a  still 
loftier  tone.  The  cedar  does  not  see  a  rose  at  its  foot. 
Delobelle  did  not  see  Risler  at  his  feet. 

When,  by  chance,  the  great  man  deigned  to  notice 
his  presence,  he  had  a  certain  air  of  stooping  down  to 
him  to  listen,  and  to  smile  at  his  words  as  at  a  child's; 
or  else  he  would  amuse  himself  by  dazzling  him  with 
stories  of  actresses,  would  give  him  lessons  in  deport- 
ment and  the  addresses  of  outfitters,  unable  to  under- 
stand why  a  man  who  earned  so  much  money  should 
always  be  dressed  like  an  usher  at  a  primary  school. 
Honest  Risler,  convinced  of  his  inferiority,  would  try 

[26] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

to  earn  forgiveness  by  a  multitude  of  little  attentions, 
obliged  to  furnish  all  the  delicacy,  of  course,  as  he  was 
the  constant  benefactor. 

Among  these  three  households  living  on  the  same 
floor;  little  Chebe,  with  her  goings  and  comings,  formed 
the  bond  of  union. 

At  all  times  of  day  she  would  slip  into  the  workroom 
of  the  Delobelles,  amuse  herself  by  watching  their  v/ork 
and  looking  at  all  the  insects,  and,  being  already  more 
coquettish  than  playful,  if  an  insect  had  lost  a  wing  in 
its  travels,  or  a  humming-bird  its  necklace  of  down, 
she  would  try  to  make  herself  a  headdress  of  the  re- 
mains, to  fix  that  brilliant  shaft  of  color  among  the 
ripples  of  her  silky  hair.  It  made  Desiree  and  her 
mother  smile  to  see  her  stand  on  tiptoe  in  front  of  the 
old  tarnished  mirror,  with  affected  little  shrugs  and 
grimaces.  Then,  when  she  had  had  enough  of  admit- 
ing  herself,  the  child  would  open  the  door  with  all  the 
strength  of  her  little  fingers,  and  would  go  demurely, 
holding  her  head  perfectly  straight  for  fear  of  disar- 
ranging her  headdress,  and  knock  at  the  Rislers'  door. 

No  one  was  there  in  the  daytime  but  Frantz  the 
student,  leaning  over  his  books,  doing  his  duty  faith- 
fully. But  when  Sidonie  enters,  farewell  to  study! 
Everything  must  be  put  aside  to  receive  that  lovely 
creature  with  the  humming-bird  in  her  hair,  pretend- 
ing to  be  a  princess  who  had  come  to  Chaptal's  school 
to  ask  his  hand  in  marriage  from  the  director. 

It  was  really  a  strange  sight  to  see  that  tall,  over- 
grown boy  playing  with  that  little  girl  of  eight,  humor- 
ing her  caprices,  adoring  her  as  he  yielded  to  her,  so 

[27] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

that  later,  when  he  fell  genuinely  in  love  with  her,  no 
one  could  have  said  at  what  time  the  change  began. 

Petted  as  she  was  in  those  two  homes,  little  Chebe 
was  very  fond  of  running  to  the  window  on  the  land- 
ing. There  it  was  that  she  found  her  greatest  source 
of  entertainment,  a  horizon  always  open,  a  sort  of 
vision  of  the  future  toward  which  she  leaned  with 
eager  curiosity  and  without  fear,  for  children  are  not 
subject  to  vertigo. 

Between  the  slated  roofs  sloping  toward  one  another, 
the  high  wall  of  the  factory,  the  tops  of  the  plane-trees 
in  the  garden,  the  many- windowed  workshops  appeared 
to  her  like  a  promised  land,  the  country  of  her  dreams, 
^hat  From.ont  estabHshment  was  to  her  mind  the 
highest  ideal  of  wealth. 

The  place  it  occupied  in  that  part  of  the  Marais, 
which  was  at  certain  hours  enveloped  by  its  smoke  and 
its  din,  Risler's  enthusiasm,  his  fabulous  tales  concern- 
ing his  employer's  wealth  and  goodness  and  cleverness, 
had  aroused  that  childish  curiosity;  and  such  portions 
as  she  could  see  of  the  dwelling-houses,  the  carved 
wooden  blinds,  the  circular  front  steps,  with  the  gar- 
den-seats before  them,  a  great  white  bird-house  with 
gilt  stripes  glistening  in  the  sun,  the  blue-lined  coupe 
standing  in  the  courtyard,  were  to  her  objects  of  con- 
tinual admiration. 

She  knew  all  the  habits  of  the  family:  At  what  hour 
the  bell  was  rung,  when  the  workmen  went  away,  the 
Saturday  pay-day  which  kept  the  cashier's  little  lamp 
lighted  late  in  the  evening,  and  the  long  Sunday  after- 
upon,  the  closecl  workshops,  the  smokeless  chimney, 

[?8] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

the  profound  silence  which  enabled  her  to  hear  Made- 
moiselle Claire  at  play  in  the  garden,  running  about 
with  her  cousin  Georges.  From  Risler  she  obtained 
details. 

"Show  me  the  salon  windows,"  she  would  say  to 
him,  "and  Claire's  room." 

Risler,  delighted  by  this  extraordinary  interest  in  his 
beloved  factory,  would  explain  to  the  child  from  their 
lofty  position  the  arrangement  of  the  buildings,  point 
out  the  print-shop,  the  gilding-shop,  the  designing- 
room  where  he  worked,  the  engine-room,  above  which 
towered  that  enormous  chimney  blackening  all  the 
neighboring  walls  with  its  corrosive  smoke,  and  which 
never  suspected  that  a  young  life,  concealed  beneath  a 
neighboring  roof,  mingled  its  inmost  thoughts  with  its 
loud,  indefatigable  panting. 

At  last  one  day  Sidonie  entered  that  paradise  of 
which  she  had  heretofore  caught  only  a  glimpse. 

Madame  Fromont,  to  whom  Risler  often  spoke  of 
her  Httle  neighbor's  beauty  and  intelligence,  asked  him 
to  bring  her  to  the  children's  ball  she  intended  to  give 
at  Christmas.  At  first  Monsieur  Chebe  replied  by  a 
curt  refusal.  Even  in  those  days,  the  Fromonts,  whose 
name  was  always  on  Risler's  lips,  irritated  and  humili- 
ated him  by  their  wealth.  Moreover,  it  was  to  be  a 
fancy  ball,  and  M.  Chebe — who  did  not  sell  wall- 
papers, not  he ! — could  not  afford  to  dress  his  daughter 
as  a  circus-dancer.  But  Risler  insisted,  declared  that 
he  would  get  everything  himself,  and  at  once  set  about 
designing  a  costume. 

It  was  a  memorable  evening. 

[»9] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

In  Madame  Chebe's  bedroom,  littered  with  pieces 
of  cloth  and  pins  and  small  toilet  articles,  Desiree 
Delobelle  superintended  Sidonie's  toilet.  The  child, 
appearing  taller  because  of  her  short  skirt  of  red  flannel 
with  black  stripes,  stood  before  the  mirror,  erect  and 
motionless,  in  the  glittering  splendor  of  her  costume. 
She  was  charming.  The  waist,  with  bands  of  velvet 
laced  over  the  white  stomacher,  the  lovely,  long  tresses 
of  chestnut  hair  escaping  from  a  hat  of  plaited  straw, 
all  the  trivial  details  of  her  Savoyard's  costume  were 
heightened  by  the  intelligent  features  of  the  child,  who 
was  quite  at  her  ease  in  the  brilliant  colors  of  that 
theatrical  garb. 

The  whole  assembled  neighborhood  uttered  cries  of 
admiration.  While  some  one  went  in  search  of  Delo- 
belle, the  lame  girl  arranged  the  folds  of  the  skirt,  the 
bows  on  the  shoes,  and  cast  a  final  glance  over  her 
work,  without  laying  aside  her  needle;  she,  too,  was 
excited,  poor  child !  by  the  intoxication  of  that  festivity 
to  which  she  was  not  invited.  The  great  man  arrived. 
He  made  Sidonie  rehearse  two  or  three  stately  curtseys 
which  he  had  taught  her,  the  proper  way  to  walk,  to 
stand,  to  smile  with  her  mouth  slightly  open,  and  the 
exact  position  of  the  little  finger.  It  was  truly  amusing 
to  see  the  precision  with  which  the  child  went  through 
the  drill. 

"She  has  dramatic  blood  in  her  veins!"  exclaimed 
the  old  actor  enthusiastically,  unable  to  understand  why 
that  stupid  Frantz  was  strongly  inclined  to  weep. 

A  year  after  that  happy  evening  Sidonie  could  have 
told  you  what  flowers  there  were  in  the  reception- 

[30] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

rooms,  the  color  of  the  furniture,  and  the  music  they 
were  playing  as  she  entered  the  ballroom,  so  deep  an 
impression  did  •  her  enjoyment  make  upon  her.  She 
forgot  nothing,  neither  the  costumes  that  made  an 
eddying  whirl  about  her,  nor  the  childish  laughter,  nor 
all  the  tiny  steps  that  glided  over  the  polished  floors. 
For  a  moment,  as  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  great  red-silk 
couch,  taking  from  the  plate  presented  to  her  the  first 
sherbet  of  her  life,  she  suddenly  thought  of  the  dark 
stairway,  of  her  parents'  stuffy  little  rooms,  and  it  pro- 
duced upon  her  mind  the  effect  of  a  distant  country 
which  she  had  left  forever. 

However,  she  was  considered  a  fascinating  little 
creature,  and  was  much  admired  and  petted.  Claire 
Fromont,  a  miniature  Cauchoise  dressed  in  lace,  pre- 
sented her  to  her  cousin  Georges,  a  magnificent  hussar 
who  turned  at  every  step  to  observe  the  effect  of  his 
sabre. 

"You  understand,  Georges,  she  is  my  friend.  She 
is  coming  to  play  with  us  Sundays.  Mamma  says  she 
may." 

And,  with  the  artless  impulsiveness  of  a  happy  child, 
she  kissed  little  Chebe  with  all  her  heart. 

But  the  time  came  to  go.  For  a  long  time,  in  the 
filthy  street  where  the  snow  was  melting,  in  the  dark 
hall,  in  the  silent  room  where  her  mother  awaited  her, 
the  brilliant  light  of  the  salons  continued  to  shine  be- 
fore her  dazzled  eyes. 

"Was  it  very  fine?  Did  you  have  a  charming 
time?"  queried  Madame  Chebe  in  a  low  tone,  unfas- 
tening the  buckles  of  the  gorgeous  costume,  one  by  one. 

[31] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

And  Sidonie,  overcome  with  fatigue,  made  no  reply, 
but  fell  asleep  standing,  beginning  a  lovely  dream  which 
was  to  last  throughout  her  youth  and  cost  her  many 
tears. 

Claire  Fromont  kept  her  word.  Sidonie  often  went 
to  play  in  the  beautiful  gravelled  garden,  and  was  able 
to  see  at  close  range  the  carved  blinds  and  the  dovecot 
with  its  threads  of  gold.  She  came  to  know  all  the 
comers  and  hiding-places  in  the  great  factory,  and  took 
part  in  many  glorious  games  of  hide-and-seek  behind 
the  printing-tables  in  the  solitude  of  Sunday  afternoon. 
On  holidays  a  plate  was  laid  for  her  at  the  children's 
table. 

Everybody  loved  her,  although  she  never  exhibited 
much  affection  for  any  one.  So  long  as  she  was  in  the 
midst  of  that  luxury,  she  was  conscious  of  softer  im- 
pulses, she  was  happy  and  felt  that  she  was  embel- 
lished by  her  surroundings;  but  when  she  returned  to 
her  parents,  when  she  saw  the  factory  through  the 
dirty  panes  of  the  window  on  the  landing,  she  had  an 
inexplicable  feeling  of  regret  and  anger. 

And  yet  Claire  Fromont  treated  her  as  a  friend. 

Sometimes  they  took  her  to  the  Bois,  to  the  Tuileries, 
in  the  famous  blue-lined  carriage,  or  into  the  country, 
to  pass  a  whole  week  at  Grandfather  Gardinois's  cha- 
teau, at  Savigny-sur-Orge.  Thanks  to  the  munificence 
of  Risler,  who  was  very  proud  of  his  little  one's  success, 
she  was  always  presentable  and  well  dressed.  Madame 
Ch^be  made  it  a  point  of  honor,  and  the  pretty,  lame 
girl  was  always  at  hand  to  place  her  treasures  of  unused 
CQCju^try  at  hef  little  friend's  service, 

[3«] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

But  M.  Chebe,  who  was  always  hostile  to  the 
Fromonts,  looked  frowningly  upon  this  growing  inti- 
macy. The  true  reason  was  that  he  himself  never  was 
invited;  but  he  gave  other  reasons,  and  would  say  to 
his  wife: 

"Don't  you  see  that  your  daughter's  heart  is  sad 
when  she  returns  from  that  house,  and  that  she  passes 
whole  hours  dreaming  at  the  window?" 

But  poor  Madame  Chebe,  who  had  been  so  unhappy 
ever  since  her  marriage,  had  become  reckless.  She 
declared  that  one  should  make  the  most  of  the  present 
for  fear  of  the  future,  should  seize  happiness  as  it 
passes,  as  one  often  has  no  other  support  and  consola- 
tion in  Hfe  than  the  memory  of  a  happy  childhood. 

For  once  it  happened  that  M.  Chebe  was  right. 


[33] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  FALSE  PEARLS 

*FTER  two  or  three  yeats  of  intimacy 
with  Claire,  of  sharing  her  amuse- 
ments, years  during  which  Sidonie 
acquired  the  famiUarity  with  luxury 
and  the  graceful  manners  of  the 
children  of  the  wealthy,  the  friend- 
ship was  suddenly  broken. 
Cousin  Georges,  whose  guardian 
M.  Fromont  was,  had  entered  college  some  time  before. 
Claire  in  her  turn  took  her  departure  for  the  convent 
with  the  outfit  of  a  little  queen;  and  at  that  very  time 
the  Chebes  were  discussing  the  question  of  apprentic- 
ing Sidonie  to  some  trade.  They  promised  to  love 
each  other  as  before  and  to  meet  twice  a  month,  on  the 
Sundays  that  Claire  was  permitted  to  go  home. 

Indeed,  little  Chebe  did  still  go  down  sometimes  to 
play  with  her  friends;  but  as  she  grew  older  she  realized 
more  fully  the  distance  that  separated  them,  and  her 
clothes  began  to  seem  to  her  very  simple  for  Madame 
Fromont's  salon. 

When  the  three  were  alone,  the  childish  friendship 
which  made  them  equals  prevented  any  feeling  of  em- 
barrassment; but  vistors  came,  girl  friends  from  the 
convent,  among  others  a  tall  girl,  always  richly  dressed, 

[34] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

whom  her  mother's  maid  used  to  bring  to  play  with  the 
little  Fromonts  on  Sunday. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  her  coming  up  the  steps,  resplend- 
ent and  disdainful,  Sidonie  longed  to  go  away  at  once. 
The  other  embarrassed  her  with  awkward  questions. 
Where  did  she  live  ?  What  did  her  parents  do  ?  Had 
she  a  carriage? 

As  she  listened  to  their  talk  of  the  convent  and  their 
friends,  Sidonie  felt  that  they  lived  in  a  different  world, 
a  thousand  miles  from  her  own ;  and  a  deathly  sadness 
seized  her,  especially  when,  on  her  return  home,  her 
mother  spoke  of  sending  her  as  an  apprentice  to  Made- 
moiselle Le  Mire,  a  friend  of  the  Delobelles,  who  con- 
ducted a  large  false-pearl  establishment  on  the  Rue  du 
Roi-Dore. 

Risler  insisted  upon  the  plan  of  having  the  little  one 
serve  an  apprenticeship.  "Let  her  learn  a  trade,"  said 
the  honest  fellow.  "Later  I  will  undertake  to  set  her 
up  in  business." 

Indeed,  this  same  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire  spoke  of 
retiring  in  a  few  years.  It  was  an  excellent  oppor- 
tunity. 

One  morning,  a  dull  day  in  November,  her  father 
took  her  to  the  Rue  du  Rio-Dore,  to  the  fourth  floor  of 
an  old  house,  even  older  and  blacker  than  her  own 
home. 

On  the  ground  floor,  at  the  entrance  to  the  hall, 
hung  a  number  of  signs  with  gilt  letters:  Depot  for 
Travelling-Bags,  Plated  Chains,  Children's  Toys,  Math- 
ematical Instruments  in  Glass,  Bouquets  for  Brides  and 
Maids  of  Honor,  Wild  Flowers  a  Specialty;  and  above 

[35] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

was  a  little  dusty  show-case,  wherein  pearls,  yellow 
with  age,  glass  grapes  and  cherries  surrounded  the 
pretentious  name  of  Angelina  Le  Mire. 

What  a  horrible  house! 

It  had  not  even  a  broad  landing  like  that  of  the 
Chebes,  grimy  with  old  age,  but  brightened  by  its  win- 
dow and  the  beautiful  prospect  presented  by  the  fac- 
tory. A  narrow  staircase,  a  narrow  door,  a  succession 
of  rooms  with  brick  floors,  all  small  and  cold,  and  in 
the  last  an  old  maid  with  a  false  front  and  black  thread 
mitts,  reading  a  soiled  copy  of  the  Journal  pour  Tous, 
and  apparently  very  much  annoyed  to  be  disturbed  in 
her  reading. 

Mademoiselle  Le  Mire  (written  in  two  words)  re- 
ceived the  father  and  daughter  without  rising,  dis- 
coursed at  great  length  of  the  rank  she  had  lost,  of  her 
father,  an  old  nobleman  of  Le  Rouergue — it  is  most 
extraordinary  how  many  old  noblemen  Le  Rouergue 
has  produced! — and  of  an  unfaithful  steward  who  had 
carried  off  their  whole  fortune.  She  instantly  aroused 
the  sympathies  of  M.  Chebe,  for  whom  decayed  gentle- 
folk had  an  irresistible  charm,  and  he  went  away  over- 
joyed, promising  his  daughter  to  call  for  her  at  seven 
o'clock  at  night  in  accordance  with  the  terms  agreed 
upon. 

The  apprentice  was  at  once  ushered  into  the  still 
empty  workroom.  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire  seated  her 
in  front  of  a  great  drawer  filled  with  pearls,  needles, 
and  bodkins,  with  instalments  of  four-sou  novels 
thrown  in  at  random  among  them. 

It  was  Sidonie's  business  to  sort  the  pearls  and 

[36] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

string  them  in  necklaces  of  equal  length,  which  were 
tied  together  to  be  sold  to  the  small  dealers.  Then  the 
young  women  would  soon  be  there  and  they  would 
show  her  exactly  what  she  would  have  to  do,  for  Made- 
moiselle Le  Mire  (always  written  in  two  words!)  did 
not  interfere  at  all,  but  overlooked  her  business  from  a 
considerable  distance,  from  that  dark  room  where  she 
passed  her  life  reading  newspaper  novels. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  workwomen  arrived,  five  tall, 
pale-faced,  faded  girls,  wretchedly  dressed,  but  with 
their  hair  becomingly  arranged,  after  the  fashion  of 
poor  working-girls  who  go  about  bare-headed  through 
the  streets  of  Paris. 

Two  or  three  were  yawning  and  rubbing  their  eyes, 
saying  that  they  were  dead  with  sleep. 

At  last  they  went  to  work  beside  a  long  table  where 
each  had  her  own  drawer  and  her  own  tools.  An  order 
had  been  received  for  mourning  jewels,  and  haste  was 
essential.  Sidonie,  whom  the  forewoman  instructed  in 
her  task  in  a  tone  of  infinite  superiority,  began  dismally 
to  sort  a  multitude  of  black  pearls,  bits  of  glass,  and 
wisps  of  crape. 

The  others,  paying  no  attention  to  the  Httle  girl, 
chatted  together  as  they  worked.  They  talked  of  a 
wedding  that  was  to  take  place  that  very  day  at  St.- 
Gervais. 

"Suppose  we  go,"  said  a  stout,  red-haired  girl,  whose 
name  was  Malvina.  "It's  to  be  at  noon.  We  shall 
have  time  to  go  and  get  back  again  if  we  hurry." 

And,  at  the  lunch  hour,  the  whole  party  rushed 
downstairs  four  steps  at  a  time. 

[37] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Sidonie  had  brought  her  luncheon  in  a  little  basket, 
like  a  school-girl ;  with  a  heavy  heart  she  sat  at  a  comer 
of  the  table  and  ate  alone  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 
Great  God !  what  a  sad  and  wretched  thing  life  seemed 
to  be ;  what  a  terrible  revenge  she  would  take  hereafter 
for  her  sufferings  there! 

At  one  o'clock  the  girls  trooped  noisily  back,  highly 
excited. 

''Did  you  see  the  white  satin  gown?  And  the  veil 
of  point  d^Angleterre?    There's  a  lucky  girl!" 

Thereupon  they  repeated  in  the  workroom  the  re- 
marks they  had  made  in  undertones  in  the  church, 
leaning  against  the  rail,  throughout  the  ceremony. 
That  question  of  a  wealthy  marriage,  of  beautiful 
clothes,  lasted  all  day  long;  nor  did  it  interfere  with 
their  work — far  from  it. 

These  small  Parisian  industries,  which  have  to  do 
with  the  most  trivial  details  of  the  toilet,  keep  the 
work-girls  informed  as  to  the  fashions  and  fill  their 
minds  with  thoughts  of  luxury  and  elegance.  To  the 
poor  girls  who  worked  on  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire's 
fourth  floor,  the  blackened  walls,  the  narrow  street  did 
not  exist.  They  were  always  thinking  of  something 
else  and  passed  their  lives  asking  one  another: 

"Malvina,  if  you  were  rich  what  would  you  do? 
For  my  part,  Fd  live  on  the  Champs-Elys^es."  And 
the  great  trees  in  the  square,  the  carriages  that  wheeled 
about  there,  coquettishly  slackening  their  pace,  ap- 
peared momentarily  before  their  minds,  a  dehcious,  re- 
freshing vision. 

Little  Chebe,  in  her  comer,  listened  without  speak- 

[38] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

ing,  industriously  stringing  her  black  grapes  with  the 
precocious  dexterity  and  taste  she  had  acquired  in  De- 
siree's  neighborhood.  So  that  in  the  evening,  when 
M.  Chebe  came  to  fetch  his  daughter,  they  praised 
her  in  the  highest  terms. 

Thereafter  all  her  days  were  alike.  The  next  day, 
instead  of  black  pearls,  she  strung  white  pearls  and  bits 
of  false  coral;  for  at  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire's  they 
worked  only  in  what  was  false,  in  tinsel,  and  that  was 
where  little  Chebe  was  to  serve  her  apprenticeship  to 
life. 

For  some  time  the  new  apprentice — being  younger 
and  better  bred  than  the  others — found  that  they  held 
aloof  from  her.  Later,  as  she  grew  older,  she  was  ad- 
mitted to  their  friendship  and  their  confidence,  but 
without  ever  sharing  their  pleasures.  She  was  too 
proud  to  go  to  see  weddings  at  midday;  and  when  she 
heard  them  talking  of  a  ball  at  Vauxhall  or  the  Delices 
du  Marais,  or  of  a  nice  little  supper  at  Bonvalet's  or  at 
the  Quatre  Sergents  de  la  Rochelle,  she  was  always  very 
disdainful. 

We  looked  higher  than  that,  did  we  not,  little  Chebe  ? 

Moreover,  her  father  called  for  her  every  evening. 
Sometimes,  however,  about  the  New  Year,  she  was 
obliged  to  work  late  with  the  others,  in  order  to  com- 
plete pressing  orders.  In  the  gaslight  those  pale-faced 
Parisians,  sorting  pearls  as  white  as  themselves,  of  a 
dead,  unwholesome  whiteness,  were  a  painful  spectacle. 
There  was  the  same  fictitious  glitter,  the  same  fragility 
of  spurious  jewels.  They  talked  of  nothing  but  masked 
balls  and  theatres. 

[39] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"Have  you  seen  Adele  Page,  in  Les  Trois  Mousque- 
taires?  And  Melingue?  And  Marie  Laurent?  Oh! 
Marie  Laurent!" 

The  actors'  doublets,  the  embroidered  costumes  of 
the  queens  of  melodrama,  appeared  before  them  in  the 
white  light  of  the  necklaces  forming  beneath  their 
fingers. 

In  summer  the  work  was  less  pressing.  It  was  the 
dull  season.  In  the  intense  heat,  when  through  the 
drawn  blinds  fruit-sellers  could  be  heard  in  the  street, 
crying  their  mirabelles  and  Queen  Claudes,  the  work- 
girls  slept  heavily,  their  heads  on  the  table.  Or  per- 
haps Malvina  would  go  and  ask  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire 
for  a  copy  of  the  Journal  pour  Tous,  and  read  aloud  to 
the  others. 

But  little  Chebe  did  not  care  for  the  novels.  She  car- 
ried one  in  her  head  much  more  interesting  than  all 
that  trash. 

The  fact  is,  nothing  could  make  her  forget  the  fac- 
tory. When  she  set  forth  in  the  morning  on  her  fa- 
ther's arm,  she  always  cast  a  glance  in  that  direction. 
At  that  hour  the  works  were  just  stirring,  the  chimney 
emitted  its  first  puff  of  black  smoke.  Sidonie,  as  she 
passed,  could  hear  the  shouts  of  the  workmen,  the  dull, 
heavy  blows  of  the  bars  of  the  printing-press,  the 
mighty,  rhythmical  hum  of  the  machinery;  and  all 
those  sounds  of  toil,  blended  in  her  memory  with  recol- 
lections of  jetes  and  blue-lined  carriages,  haunted  her 
persistently. 

They  spoke  louder  than  the  rattle  of  the  omnibuses, 
the  street  cries,  the  cascades  in  the  gutters;  and  even  in 

[40] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

the  workroom,  when  she  was  sorting  the  false  pearls 
even  at  night,  in  her  own  home,  when  she  went,  after 
dinner,  to  breathe  the  fresh  air  at  the  window  on  the 
landing  and  to  gaze  at  the  dark,  deserted  factory,  that 
murmur  still  buzzed  in  her  ears,  forming,  as  it  were,  a 
continual  accompaniment  to  her  thoughts. 

"The  little  one  is  tired,  Madame  Chebe.  She  needs 
diversion.  Next  Sunday  I  will  take  you  all  into  the 
country." 

These  Sunday  excursions,  which  honest  Risler  organ- 
ized to  amuse  Sidonie,  served  only  to  sadden  her  still 
more. 

On  those  days  she  must  rise  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning;  for  the  poor  must  pay  for  all  their  enjoy- 
ments, and  there  was  always  a  ribbon  to  be  ironed  at 
the  last  moment,  or  a  bit  of  trimming  to  be  sewn  on  in 
an  attempt  to  rejuvenate  the  everlasting  little  lilac 
frock  with  white  stripes  which  Madame  Chebe  con- 
scientiously lengthened  every  year. 

They  would  all  set  off  together,  the  Chebes,  the  Ris- 
lers,  and  the  illustrious  Delobelle.  Only  Desiree  and 
her  mother  never  were  of  the  party.  The  poor,  crippled 
child,  ashamed  of  her  deformity,  never  would  stir 
from  her  chair,  and  Mamma  Delobelle  stayed  behind 
to  keep  her  company.  Moreover,  neither  possessed  a 
suitable  gown  in  which  to  show  herself  out-of-doors  in 
their  great  man's  company;  it  would  have  destroyed  the 
whole  effect  of  his  appearance. 

When  they  left  the  house,  Sidonie  would  brighten  up 
a  little.  Paris  in  the  pink  haze  of  a  July  morning,  the 
railway  stations  filled  with  light  dresses,  the  country  fly- 

[41] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

ing  past  the  car  windows,  and  the  healthful  exercise, 
the  bath  in  the  pure  air  saturated  with  the  v/ater  of  the 
Seine,  vivified  by  a  bit  of  forest,  perfumed  by  flowering 
meadows,  by  ripening  grain,  all  combined  to  make  her 
giddy  for  a  moment.  But  that  sensation  was  soon  suc- 
ceeded by  disgust  at  such  a  commonplace  way  of  pass- 
ing her  Sunday. 

It  was  always  the  same  thing. 

They  stopped  at  a  refreshment  booth,  in  close  prox- 
imity to  a  very  noisy  and  numerously  attended  rustic 
festival,  for  there  must  be  an  audience  for  Delobelle, 
who  would  saunter  along,  absorbed  by  his  chimera, 
dressed  in  gray,  with  gray  gaiters,  a  little  hat  over  his 
ear,  a  light  top  coat  on  his  arm,  imagining  that  the 
stage  represented  a  country  scene  in  the  suburbs  of 
Paris,  and  that  he  was  playing  the  part  of  a  Parisian 
sojourning  in  the  country. 

As  for  M.  Chebe,  who  prided  himself  on  being  as 
fond  of  nature  as  the  late  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  he 
did  not  appreciate  it  without  the  accompaniments 
of  shooting-matches,  wooden  horses,  sack  races,  and  a 
profusion  of  dust  and  penny- whistles,  which  constituted 
also  Madame  Chebe's  ideal  of  a  country  life. 

But  Sidonie  had  a  different  ideal;  and  those  Pa- 
risian Sundays  passed  in  stroUing  through  noisy  village 
streets  depressed  her  beyond  measure.  Her  only  pleas- 
ure in  those  throngs  was  the  consciousness  of  being 
stared  at.  The  veriest  boor's  admiration,  frankly  ex- 
pressed aloud  at  her  side,  made  her  smile  all  day;  for 
she  was  of  those  who  disdain  no  compliment. 

Sometimes,  leaving  the  Ch^bes  and  Delobelle  in  the 

[42] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

midst  of  the  jite,  Risler  would  go  into  the  fields  with  his 
brother  and  the  "little  one"  in  search  of  flowers  for 
patterns  for  his  wall-papers.  Frantz,  with  his  long 
arms,  would  pull  down  the  highest  branches  of  a  haw- 
thorn, or  would  climb  a  park  wall  to  pick  a  leaf  of 
graceful  shape  he  had  spied  on  the  other  side.  But  they 
reaped  their  richest  harvests  on  the  banks  of  the 
stream. 

There  they  found  those  flexible  plants,  with  long 
swaying  stalks,  which  made  such  a  lovely  effect  on 
hangings,  tall,  straight  reeds,  and  the  volubilis,  whose 
flower,  opening  suddenly  as  if  in  obedience  to  a  caprice, 
resembles  a  living  face,  some  one  looking  at  you  amid 
the  lovely,  quivering  foliage.  Risler  arranged  his  bou- 
quets artistically,  drawing  his  inspiration  from  the  very 
nature  of  the  plants,  trying  to  understand  thoroughly 
their  manner  of  life,  which  can  not  be  divined  after  the 
withering  of  one  day. 

Then,  when  the  bouquet  was  completed,  tied  with  a 
broad  blade  of  grass  as  with  a  ribbon,  and  slung  over 
Frantz' s  back,  away  they  went.  Risler,  always  en- 
grossed in  his  art,  looked  about  for  subjects,  for  pos- 
sible combinations,  as  they  walked  along. 

"Look  there,  httle  one — see  that  bunch  of  hly  of  the 
valley,  with  its  white  bells,  among  those  eglantines. 
What  do  you  think  ?  Wouldn't  that  be  pretty  against  a 
sea-green  or  pearl-gray  background?" 

But  Sidonie  cared  no  more  for  lilies  of  the  valley 
than  for  eglantine.  Wild  flowers  always  seemed  to 
her  like  the  flowers  of  the  poor,  something  like  her 
lilac  dress. 

[43] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

She  remembered  that  she  had  seen  flowers  of  a  differ- 
ent sort  at  the  house  of  M.  Gardinois,  at  the  ChS,teau 
de  Savigny,  in  the  hothouses,  on  the  balconies,  and  all 
about  the  gravelled  courtyard  bordered  with  tall  urns. 
Those  were  the  flowers  she  loved ;  that  was  her  idea  of 
the  country! 

The  little  stations  in  the  outskirts  of  Paris  are  so 
terribly  crowded  and  stuffy  on  those  Sunday  evenings 
in  summer!  Such  artificial  enjoyment,  such  idiotic 
laughter,  such  doleful  ballads,  sung  in  whispers  by 
voices  that  no  longer  have  the  strength  to  roar!  That 
was  the  time  when  M.  Chebe  was  in  his  element. 

He  would  elbow  his  way  to  the  gate,  scold  about  the 
delay  of  the  train,  declaim  against  the  station-agent, 
the  company,  the  government;  say  to  Delobelle  in  a 
loud  voice,  so  as  to  be  overheard  by  his  neighbors: 

"I  say — suppose  such  a  thing  as  this  should  happen 
in  America!"  Which  remark,  thanks  to  the  expressive 
by-play  of  the  illustrious  actor,  and  to  the  superior  air 
with  which  he  replied,  "I  believe  you!"  gave  those  who 
stood  near  to  understand  that  these  gentlemen  knew 
exactly  what  would  happen  in  America  in  such  a  case. 
Now,  they  were  equally  and  entirely  ignorant  on  that 
subject;  but  upon  the  crowd  their  words  made  an  im- 
pression. 

Sitting  beside  Frantz,  with  half  of  his  bundle  of 
flowers  on  her  knees,  Sidonie  would  seem  to  be  blotted 
out,  as  it  were,  amid  the  uproar,  during  the  long  wait 
for  the  evening  trains.  From  the  station,  lighted  by  a 
single  lamp,  she  could  see  the  black  clumps  of  trees 
outside,  lighted  here  and  there  by  the  last  illuminations 

[44] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

of  the  jite,  a  dark  village  street,  people  continually  com- 
ing in,  and  a  lantern  hanging  on  a  deserted  pier. 

From  time  to  time,  on  the  other  side  of  the  glass 
doors,  a  train  would  rush  by  without  stopping,  with  a 
shower  of  hot  cinders  and  the  roar  of  escaping  steam. 
Thereupon  a  tempest  of  shouts  and  stamping  would 
arise  in  the  station,  and,  soaring  above  all  the  rest,  the 
shrill  treble  of  M.  Chebe,  shrieking  in  his  sea-gull's 
voice:  "Break  down  the  doors!  break  down  the 
doors!" — a  thing  that  the  little  man  would  have  taken 
good  care  not  to  do  himself,  as  he  had  an  abject  fear  of 
gendarmes.  In  a  moment  the  storm  would  abate.  The 
tired  women,  their  hair  disarranged  by  the  wind,  would 
fall  asleep  on  the  benches.  There  were  torn  and  ragged 
dresses,  low-necked  white  gowns,  covered  with  dust. 

The  air  they  breathed  consisted  mainly  of  dust.  It 
lay  upon  their  clothes,  rose  at  every  step,  obscured  the 
light  of  the  lamp,  vexed  one's  eyes,  and  raised  a  sort  of 
cloud  before  the  tired  faces.  The  cars  which  they  en- 
tered at  last,  after  hours  of  waiting,  were  saturated 
with  it  also.  Sidonie  would  open  the  window,  and  look 
out  at  the  dark  fields,  an  endless  line  of  shadow.  Then, 
like  innumerable  stars,  the  first  lanterns  of  the  outer 
boulevards  appeared  near  the  fortifications. 

So  ended  the  ghastly  day  of  rest  of  all  those  poor 
creatures.  The  sight  of  Paris  brought  back  to  each 
one's  mind  the  thought  of  the  morrow's  toil.  Dismal 
as  her  Sunday  had  been,  Sidonie  began  to  regret  that 
it  had  passed.  She  thought  of  the  rich,  to  whom  all  the 
days  of  their  lives  were  days  of  rest;  and  vaguely,  as  in 
a  dream,  the  long  park  avenues  of  which  she  had 

[45] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

caught  glimpses  during  the  day  appeared  to  her  thronged 
with  those  happy  ones  of  earth,  strolHng  on  the  fine 
gravel,  while  outside  the  gate,  in  the  dust  of  the  high- 
road, the  poor  man's  Sunday  hurried  swiftly  by,  having 
hardly  time  to  pause  a  moment  to  look  and  envy. 

Such  was  little  Chebe's  life  from  thirteen  to  seven- 
teen. 

The  years  passed,  but  did  not  bring  with  them  the 
slightest  change.  Madame  Chebe's  cashmere  was  a 
little  more  threadbare,  the  little  lilac  frock  had  under- 
gone a  few  additional  repairs,  and  that  was  all.  But, 
as  Sidonie  grew  older,  Frantz,  now  become  a  young 
man,  acquired  a  habit  of  gazing  at  her  silently  with  a 
melting  expression,  of  paying  her  loving  attentions  that 
were  visible  to  everybody,  and  were  unnoticed  by  none 
save  the  girl  herself. 

Indeed,  nothing  aroused  the  interest  of  little  Chebe. 
In  the  work-room  she  performed  her  task  regularly, 
silently,  without  the  slightest  thought  of  the  future  or 
of  saving.  All  that  she  did  seemed  to  be  done  as  if  she 
were  waiting  for  something. 

Frantz,  on  the  other  hand,  had  been  working  for 
some  time  with  extraordinary  energy,  the  ardor  of  those 
who  see  something  at  the  end  of  their  efforts;  so  that, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  he  graduated  second  in  his 
class  from  the  Ecole  Centrale,  as  an  engineer. 

On  that  evening  Risler  had  taken  the  Ch^be  family 
to  the  Gymnase,  and  throughout  the  evening  he  and 
Madame  Chebe  had  been  making  signs  and  winking 
at  each  other  behind  the  children's  backs.  And  when 
they  left  the  theatre  Madame  Chebe  solemnly  placed 

[46]       . 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Sidonie's  arm  in  Frantz's,  as  if  she  would  say  to  the 
lovelorn  youth,  "Now  settle  matters — here  is  your 
chance." 

Thereupon  the  poor  lover  tried  to  settle  matters. 

It  is  a  long  walk  from  the  Gymnase  to  the  Marais. 
After  a  very  few  steps  the  brilliancy  of  the  boulevard 
is  left  behind,  the  streets  become  darker  and  darker, 
the  passers  more  and  more  rare.  Frantz  began  by 
talking  of  the  play.  He  was  very  fond  of  comedies  of 
that  sort,  in  which  there  was  plenty  of  sentiment. 

"And  you,  Sidonie?" 

"Oh!  as  for  me,  Frantz,  you  know  that  so  long  as 
there  are  fine  costumes " 

In  truth  she  thought  of  nothing  else  at  the  theatre. 
She  was  not  one  of  those  sentimental  creatures,  a  la 
Madame  Bovary,  who  return  from  the  play  with  love- 
phrases  ready-made,  a  conventional  ideal.  No!  the 
theatre  simply  made  her  long  madly  for  luxury  and  fine 
raiment;  she  brought  away  from  it  nothing  but  new 
methods  of  arranging  the  hair,  and  patterns  of  gowns. 
The  new,  exaggerated  toilettes  of  the  actresses,  their  gait, 
even  the  spurious  elegance  of  their  speech,  which  seemed 
to  her  of  the  highest  distinction,  and  with  it  all  the  taw- 
dry magnificence  of  the  gilding  and  the  lights,  the 
gaudy  placard  at  the  door,  the  long  line  of  carriages, 
and  all  the  somewhat  unwholesome  excitement  that 
springs  up  about  a  popular  play;  that  was  what  she 
loved,  that  was  what  absorbed  her  thoughts. 

"How  well  they  acted  their  love-scene!"  continued 
the  lover. 

And,  as  he  uttered  that  suggestive  phrase,  he  bent 

[47] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

fondly  toward  a  little  face  surrounded  by  a  white  woollen 
hood,  from  which  the  hair  escaped  in  rebellious  curls. 

Sidonie  sighed : 

"Oh!  yes,  the  love-scene.  The  actress  wore  beau- 
tiful diamonds." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Poor  Frantz  had 
much  difficulty  in  explaining  himself.  The  words  he 
sought  would  not  come,  and  then,  too,  he  was  afraid. 
He  fixed  the  time  mentally  when  he  would  speak: 

"When  we  have  passed  the  Porte  Saint-Denis — 
when  we  have  left  the  boulevard." 

But  when  the  time  arrived,  Sidonie  began  to  talk  of 
such  indifferent  matters  that  his  declaration  froze  on 
his  lips,  or  else  it  was  stopped  by  a  passing  carriage, 
which  enabled  their  elders  to  overtake  them. 

At  last,  in  the  Marais,  he  suddenly  took  courage : 

"Listen  to  me,  Sidonie — I  love  you!" 

That  night  the  Delobelles  had  sat  up  very  late. 

It  was  the  habit  of  those  brave-hearted  women  to 
make  their  working-day  as  long  as  possible,  to  prolong 
it  so  far  into  the  night  that  their  lamp  was  among  the 
last  to  be  extinguished  on  the  quiet  Rue  de  Braque. 
They  always  sat  up  until  the  great  man  returned  home, 
and  kept  a  dainty  little  supper  warm  for  him  in  the 
ashes  on  the  hearth. 

In  the  days  when  he  was  an  actor  there  was  some 
reason  for  that  custom;  actors,  being  obliged  to  dine 
early  and  very  sparingly,  have  a  terrible  gnawing  at 
their  vitals  when  they  leave  the  theatre,  and  usually  eat 
when  they  go  home.  Delobellc  had  not  acted  for  a  long 
time;  but  hsiving,  as  he  said,  no  right  to  abandon  the 

[48] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

stage,  he  kept  his  mania  alive  by  cHnging  to  a  number 
of  the  strolling  player's  habits,  and  the  supper  on  re- 
turning home  was  one  of  them,  as  was  his  habit  of  de- 
laying his  return  until  the  last  footlight  in  the  boule- 
vard theatres  was  extinguished.  To  retire  without 
supping,  at  the  hour  when  all  other  artists  supped, 
would  have  been  to  abdicate,  to  abandon  the  struggle, 
and  he  would  not  abandon  it,  sacre  bleu!  ^ 

On  the  evening  in  question  the  actor  had  not  yetl 
come  in  and  the  women  were  waiting  for  him,  talking 
as  they  worked,  and  with  great  animation,  notvrithstand- 
ing  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  During  the  whole  evening 
they  had  done  nothing  but  talk  of  Frantz,  of  his  suc- 
cess, of  the  future  that  lay  before  him. 

"Now,"  said  Mamma  Delobelle,  "the  only  thing  he 
needs  is  to  find  a  good  little  wife." 

That  was  Desiree's  opinion,  too.  That  was  all  that 
was  lacking  now  to  Frantz's  happiness,  a  good  Httle 
wife,  active  and  brave  and  accustomed  to  work,  who 
would  forget  everything  for  him.  And  if  Desiree  spoke 
with  great  confidence,  it  was  because  she  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  the  woman  who  was  so  well  adapted 
to  Frantz  Risler's  needs.  She  was  only  a  year  younger 
than  he,  just  enough  to  make  her  younger  than  her 
husband  and  a  mother  to  him  at  the  same  time. 

Pretty? 

No,  not  exactly,  but  attractive  rather  than  ugly,  not- 
withstanding her  infirmity,  for  she  was  lame,  poor  child! 
And  then  she  was  clever  and  bright,  and  so  loving!  No 
one  but  Desiree  knew  how  fondly  that  little  woman 
loved  Frantz,  an<^  how  she  ha4  thought  of  him  night 
4  [49] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

and  day  for  years.  He  had  not  noticed  it  himself,  but 
seemed  to  have  eyes  for  nobody  but  Sidonie,  a  gamine. 
But  no  matter!  Silent  love  is  so  eloquent,  such  a  mighty 
power  Hes  hid  in  restrained  feelings.  Who  knows? 
Perhaps  some  day  or  other 

And  the  little  cripple,  leaning  over  her  work,  started 
upon  one  of  those  long  journeys  to  the  land  of  chimeras 
of  which  she  had  made  so  many  in  her  invalid's  easy- 
chair,  with  her  feet  resting  on  the  stool;  one  of  those 
wonderful  journeys  from  which  she  always  returned 
happy  and  smiling,  leaning  on  Frantz's  arm  with  all 
the  confidence  of  a  beloved  wife.  As  her  fingers  fol- 
lowed her  thought,  the  little  bird  she  had  in  her  hand 
at  the  moment,  smoothing  his  ruffled  wings,  looked  as 
if  he  too  were  of  the  party  and  were  about  to  fly  far, 
far  away,  as  joyous  and  light  of  heart  as  she. 

Suddenly  the  door  flew  open. 

"I  do  not  disturb  you?"  said  a  triumphant  voice. 

The  mother,  who  was  slightly  drowsy,  suddenly 
raised  her  head. 

"Ah!  it's  Monsieur  Frantz.  Pray  come  in.  Monsieur 
Frantz.  We're  waiting  for  father,  as  you  see.  These 
brigands  of  artists  always  stay  out  so  late !  Take  a  seat 
— you  shall  have  supper  with  him." 

"Oh!  no,  thank  you,"  replied  Frantz,  whose  lips 
were  still  pale  from  the  emotion  he  had  undergone, 
"I  can't  stop.  I  saw  a  light  and  I  just  stepped  in 
to  tell  you — to  teU  you  some  great  news  that  will 
make  you  very  happy,  because  I  know  that  you  love 
me " 

"Great  heavens,  what  is  it?" 

[5°] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"Monsieur  Frantz  Risler  and  Mademoiselle  Sidonie 
are  engaged  to  be  married." 

"There!  didn't  I  say  that  all  he  needed  was  a  good 
little  wife,"  exclaimed  Mamma  Delobelle,  rising  and 
throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

Desiree  had  not  the  strength  .to  utter  a  word.  She 
bent  still  lower  over  her  work,  and  as  Frantz' s  eyes 
were  fixed  exclusively  upon  his  happiness,  as  Mamma 
Delobelle  did  nothing  but  look  at  the  clock  to  see 
whether  her  great  man  would  return  soon,  no  one  no- 
ticed the  lame  girl's  emotion,  nor  her  pallor,  nor  the 
convulsive  trembling  of  the  little  bird  that  lay  in  her 
hands  with  its  head  thrown  back,  like  a  bird  with  its 
death-wound. 


C519 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  GLOW-WORMS  OF   SAVIGNY 

"  Savigny-sur-Orge. 
vY  Dear  Sidonie: — ^We  were  sitting  at  table 
yesterday  in  the  great  dining-room  which 
you  remember,  with  the  door  wide  open 
leading  to  the  terrace,  where  the  flowers 
are  all  in  bloom.  I  was  a  Uttle  bored. 
Dear  grandpapa  had  been  cross  all  the 
morning,  and  poor  mamma  dared  not  say  a 
word,  being  afraid  of  those  frowning  eye- 
brows which  have  always  laid  down  the  law 
for  her.  I  was  thinking  what  a  pity  it  was 
to  be  so  entirely  alone,  in  the  middle  of  the  summer,  in  such  a 
lovely  spot,  and  that  I  should  be  very  glad,  now  that  I  have  left 
the  convent,  and  am  destined  to  pass  whole  seasons  in  the 
country,  to  have  as  in  the  old  day,  some  one  to  run  about  the 
woods  and  paths  with  me. 

"To  be  sure,  Georges  comes  occasionally,  but  he  always  arrives 
very  late,  just  in  time  for  dinner,  and  is  off  again  with  my  father 
in  the  morning  before  I  am  awake.  And  then  he  is  a  serious- 
minded  man  now,  is  Monsieur  Georges.  He  works  at  the  factory, 
and  business  cares  often  bring  frowns  to  his  brow. 

"  I  had  reached  that  point  in  my  reflections  when  suddenly  dear 
grandpapa  turned  abruptly  to  me: 

"  *  What  has  become  of  your  little  friend  Sidonie  ?  I  should  be 
glad  to  have  her  here  for  a  time.' 

"You  can  imagine  my  delight.  What  happiness  to  meet 
again,  to  renew  the  pleasant  friendship  that  was  broken  off  by  the 
fault  of  the  events  of  life  rather  than  by  our  own!    How  many 

[52] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

things  we  shall  have  to  tell  each  other!  You,  who  alone  had  the 
knack  of  driving  the  frowns  from  my  terrible  grandpapa's  brow, 
will  bring  us  gayety,  and  I  assvu-e  you  we  need  it. 

"This  lovely  Savigny  is  so  lonely!  For  instance,  sometimes  in 
the  morning  I  choose  to  be  a  little  coquettish.  I  dress  myself,  I 
make  myself  beautiful  with  my  hair  in  curls  and  put  on  a  pretty 
gown;  I  walk  through  all  the  paths,  and  suddenly  I  realize  that 
I  have  taken  all  this  trouble  for  the  swans  and  ducks,  my  dog 
Kiss,  and  the  cows,  who  do  not  even  turn  to  look  at  me  when  I 
pass.  Thereupon,  in  my  wrath,  I  hurry  home,  put  on  a  thick 
gown  and  busy  myself  on  the  farm,  in  the  servants'  quarters, 
everywhere.  And  really,  I  am  beginning  to  believe  that  ennui 
has  perfected  me,  and  that  I  shall  make  an  excellent  housekeeper. 

"  Luckily  the  hunting  season  will  soon  be  here,  and  I  rely  upon 
that  for  a  little  amusement.  In  the  first  place,  Georges  and 
father,  both  enthusiastic  sportsmen,  will  come  oftener.  And  then 
you  will  be  here,  you  know.  For  you  will  reply  at  once  that  you 
will  come,  won't  you?  Monsieur  Risler  said  not  long  ago  that 
you  were  not  well.  The  air  of  Savigny  will  do  you  worlds  of 
good. 

"Everybody  here  expects  you.  And  I  am  d)dng  with  impa- 
tience. Claire." 

Her  letter  written,  Claire  Fromont  donned  a  large 
straw  hat — for  the  first  days  of  August  were  warm  and 
glorious — and  went  herself  to  drop  it  in  the  little  box 
from  which  the  postman  collected  the  mail  from  the 
chateau  every  morning. 

It  was  on  the  edge  of  the  park,  at  a  turn  in  the  road. 
She  paused  a  moment  to  look  at  the  trees  by  the  road- 
side, at  the  neighboring  meadows  sleeping  in  the  bright 
sunlight.  Over  yonder  the  reapers  were  gathering  the 
last  sheaves.  Farther  on  they  were  ploughing.  But  all 
the  melancholy  of  the  silent  toil  had  vanished,  so  far  as 

[53] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

the  girl  was  concerned,  so  delighted  was  she  at  the 
thought  of  seeing  her  friend  once  more. 

No  breeze  came  from  the  hills  in  the  distance,  no 
voice  from  the  trees,  to  warn  her  by  a  presentiment,  to 
prevent  her  from  sending  that  fatal  letter.  And  imme- 
diately upon  her  return  she  gave  her  attention  to  the 
preparation  of  a  pretty  bedroom  for  Sidonie  adjoining 
her  own. 

The  letter  did  its  errand  faithfully.  From  the  little 
green,  vine-embowered  gate  of  the  chateau  it  found  its 
way  to  Paris,  and  arrived  that  same  evening,  with  its 
Savigny  postmark  and  impregnated  with  the  odor  of 
the  country,  at  the  fifth-floor  apartment  on  the  Rue  de 
Braque. 

What  an  event  that  was!  They  read  it  again  and 
again;  and  for  a  whole  week,  until  Sidonie 's  depart- 
ure, it  lay  on  the  mantel-shelf  beside  Madame  Chebe's 
treasures,  the  clock  under  a  glass  globe  and  the  Empire 
cups.  To  Sidonie  it  was  like  a  wonderful  romance  filled 
with  tales  of  enchantment  and  promises,  which  she  read 
without  opening  it,  merely  by  gazing  at  the  white  en- 
velope whereon  Claire  Fromont's  monogram  was  en- 
graved in  relief. 

Little  she  thought  of  marriage  now.  The  important 
question  was.  What  clothes  should  she  wear  at  the 
chS-teau?  She  must  give  her  whole  mind  to  that,  to 
cutting  and  planning,  trying  on  dresses,  devising  new 
ways  of  arranging  her  hair.  Poor  Frantz!  How  heavy 
his  heart  was  made  by  these  preparations!  That  visit 
to  Savigny,  which  he  had  tried  vainly  to  oppose,  would 
cause  a  still  further  postponement  of  their  wedding, 

[54] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

which  Sidonie — why,  he  did  not  know — persisted  in 
putting  off  from  day  to  day.  He  could  not  go  to  see 
her;  and  when  she  was  once  there,  in  the  midst  of  fes- 
tivities and  pleasures,  who  could  say  how  long  she 
would  remain  ? 

The  lover  in  his  despair  always  went  to  the  Delobelles 
to  confide  his  sorrows,  but  he  never  noticed  how  quickly 
Desiree  rose  as  soon  as  he  entered,  to  make  room  for  him 
by  her  side  at  the  work-takle,  and  how  she  at  once  sat 
down  again,  with  cheeks  as  red  as  fire  and  shining  eyes. 

For  some  days  past  they  had  ceased  to  work  at  birds 
and  insects  for  ornament.  The  mother  and  daugh- 
ter were  hemming  pink  flounces  destined  for  Sidonie's 
frock,  and  the  little  cripple  never  had  plied  her  needle 
with  such  good  heart. 

In  truth  little  Desiree  was  not  Delobelle's  daughter 
to  no  purpose. 

She  inherited  her  father's  faculty  of  retaining  his 
illusions,  of  hoping  on  to  the  end  and  even  beyond. 

While  Frantz  was  dilating  upon  his  woe,  Desiree 
was  thinking  that,  when  Sidonie  was  gone,  he  would 
come  every  day,  if  it  were  only  to  talk  about  the  absent 
one;  that  she  would  have  him  there  by  her  side,  that 
they  would  sit  up  together  waiting  for  "father,"  and 
that,  perhaps,  some  evening,  as  he  sat  looking  at  her, 
he  would  discover  the  difference  between  the  woman 
who  loves  you  and  the  one  who  simply  allows  herself 
to  be  loved. 

Thereupon  the  thought  that  every  stitch  taken  in  the 
frock  tended  to  hasten  the  departure  which  she  antici- 
pated with  such  impatience  imparted  extraordinary 

[55] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

activity  to  her  needle,  and  the  unhappy  lover  ruefully 
watched  the  flounces  and  ruffles  piling  up  about  her, 
like  little  pink,  white-capped  waves. 

When  the  pink  frock  was  finished,  Mademoiselle 
Chebe  started  for  Savigny. 

The  chateau  of  M.  Gardinois  was  built  in  the  valley 
of  the  Orge,  on  the  bank  of  that  capriciously  lovely 
stream,  with  its  windmills,  its  little  islands,  its  dams, 
and  its  broad  lawns  that  end  at  its  shores. 

The  chateau,  an  old  Louis- Quinze  structure,  low  in 
reality,  although  made  to  appear  high  by  a  pointed 
roof,  had  a  most  depressing  aspect,  suggestive  of  aris- 
tocratic antiquity;  broad  steps,  balconies  with  rusty 
balustrades,  old  urns  marred  by  time,  wherein  the 
flowers  stood  out  vividly  against  the  reddish  stone.  As 
far  as  the  eye  could  see,  the  walls  stretched  away,  de- 
cayed and  crumbling,  descending  gradually  toward  the 
stream.  The  chateau  overlooked  them,  with  its  high, 
slated  roofs,  the  farmhouse,  with  its  red  tiles,  and  the 
superb  park,  with  its  lindens,  ash-trees,  poplars  and 
chestnuts  growing  confusedly  together  in  a  dense  black 
mass,  cut  here  and  there  by  the  arched  openings  of  the 
paths. 

But  the  charm  of  the  old  place  was  the  water,  which 
enlivened  its  silence  and  gave  character  to  its  beautiful 
views.  There  were  at  Savigny,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
river,  many  springs,  fountains,  and  ponds,  in  which  the 
sun  sank  to  rest  in  all  his  glory;  and  they  formed  a 
suitable  setting  for  that  venerable  mansion,  green  and 
mossy  as  it  was,  and  slightly  worn  away,  like  a  stone  on 
the  edge  of  a  brook. 

[56] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Unluckily,  at  Savigny,  as  in  most  of  those  gorgeous 
Parisian  summer  palaces,  which  the  parvenus  in  com- 
merce and  speculation  have  made  their  prey,  the  chdt- 
elains  were  not  in  harmony  with  the  chateau. 

Since  he  had  purchased  his  chateau,  old  Gardinois 
had  done  nothing  but  injure  the  beauty  of  the  beautiful 
property  chance  had  placed  in  his  hands;  cut  dowTi 
trees  "for  the  view,"  filled  his  park  with  rough  obstruc- 
tions to  keep  out  trespassers,  and  reserved  all  his 
solicitude  for  a  magnificent  kitchen-garden,  which,  as 
it  produced  fruit  and  vegetables  in  abundance,  seemed 
to  him  more  like  his  own  part  of  the  country — the  land 
of  the  peasant. 

As  for  the  great  salons,  where  the  panels  with  paint- 
ings of  famous  subjects  were  fading  in  the  autumn  fogs, 
as  for  the  ponds  overrun  with  water-lihes,  the  grottoes, 
the  stone  bridges,  he  cared  for  them  only  because  of  the 
admiration  of  visitors,  and  because  of  such  elements 
was  composed  that  thing  which  so  flattered  his  vanity 
as  an  ex-dealer  in  cattle — a  chateau ! 

Being  already  old,  unable  to  hunt  or  fish,  he  passed 
his  time  superintending  the  most  trivial  details  of  that 
large  property.  The  grain  for  the  hens,  the  price  of  the 
last  load  of  the  second  crop  of  hay,  the  number  of  bales 
of  straw  stored  in  a  magnificent  circular  granary,  fur- 
nished him  with  matter  for  scolding  for  a  whole  day; 
and  certain  it  is  that,  when  one  gazed  from  a  distance 
at  that  lovely  estate  of  Savigny,  the  chateau  on  the  hill- 
side, the  river,  like  a  mirror,  flowing  at  its  feet,  the  high 
terraces  shaded  by  ivy,  the  supporting  wall  of  the  park 
following  the  majestic  slope  of  the  ground,  one  never 

[57] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

would  have  suspected  the  proprietor's  niggardliness  and 
meanness  of  spirit. 

In  the  idleness  consequent  upon  his  wealth,  M.  Gar- 
dinois,  being  greatly  bored  in  Paris,  Hved  at  Savigny 
throughout  the  year,  and  the  Fromonts  lived  with  him 
during  the  summer. 

Madame  Fromont  was  a  mild,  dull  woman,  whom 
her  father's  brutal  despotism  had  early  molded  to  pas- 
sive obedience  for  life.  She  maintained  the  same  atti- 
tude with  her  husband,  whose  constant  kindness  and 
indulgence  never  had  succeeded  in  triumphing  over 
that  humiliated,  taciturn  nature,  indifferent  to  every- 
thing, and,  in  some  sense,  irresponsible.  Having  passed 
her  life  with  no  knowledge  of  business,  she  had  become 
rich  without  knowing  it  and  without  the  slightest  desire 
to  take  advantage  of  it.  Her  fine  apartments  in  Paris, 
her  father's  magnificent  chateau,  made  her  uncom- 
fortable. She  occupied  as  small  a  place  as  possible  in 
both,  filling  her  life  with  a  single  passion,  order — a  fan- 
tastic, abnormal  sort  of  order,  which  consisted  in 
brushing,  wiping,  dusting,  and  polishing  the  mirrors, 
the  gilding  and  the  door-knobs,  with  her  own  hands, 
from  morning  till  night. 

When  she  had  nothing  else  to  clean,  the  strange 
woman  would  attack  her  rings,  her  watch-chain,  her 
brooches,  scrubbing  the  cameos  and  pearls,  and,  by 
dint  of  polishing  the  combination  of  her  own  name  and 
her  husband's,  she  had  effaced  all  the  letters  of  both. 
Her  fixed  idea  followed  her  to  Savigny.  She  picked  up 
dead  branches  in  the  paths,  scratched  the  moss  from 
the  benches  with  the  end  of  her  umbrella,  and  would 

[58] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

have  liked  to  dust  the  leaves  and  sweep  down  the  old 
trees;  and  often,  when  in  the  train,  she  looked  with 
envy  at  the  little  villas  standing  in  a  line  along  the 
track,  white  and  clean,  with  their  gleaming  utensils,  the 
pewter  ball,  and  the  little  oblong  gardens,  which  resem- 
ble drawers  in  a  bureau.  Those  were  her  ideal  of  a 
country-house. 

M.  Fromont,  who  came  only  occasionally  and  was 
always  absorbed  by  his  business  affairs,  enjoyed  Savigny 
little  more  than  she.  Claire  alone  felt  really  at  home  in 
that  lovely  park.  She  was  familiar  with  its  smallest 
shrub.  Being  obliged  to  provide  her  own  amusements, 
like  all  only  children,  she  had  become  attached  to  cer- 
tain walks,  watched  the  flowers  bloom,  had  her  favorite 
path,  her  favorite  tree,  her  favorite  bench  for  reading. 
The  dinner-bell  always  surprised  her  far  away  in  the 
park.  She  would  come  to  the  table,  out  of  breath  but 
happy,  flushed  with  the  fresh  air.  The  shadow  of  the 
hornbeams,  stealing  over  that  youthful  brow,  had  im- 
printed a  sort  of  gentle  melancholy  there,  and  the  deep, 
dark  green  of  the  ponds,  crossed  by  vague  rays,  was 
reflected  in  her  eyes. 

Those  lovely  surroundings  had  in  very  truth  shielded 
her  from  the  vulgarity  and  the  abjectness  of  the  persons 
about  her.  M.  Gardinois  might  deplore  in  her  pres- 
ence, for  hours  at  a  time,  the  perversity  of  tradesmen 
and  servants,  or  make  an  estimate  of  what  was  being 
stolen  from  him  each  month,  each  week,  every  day, 
every  minute;  Madame  Fromont  might  enumerate  her 
grievances  against  the  mice,  the  maggots,  dust  and 
dampness,  all  desperately  bent  upon  destroying  her 

[59] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

property,  and  engaged  in  a  conspiracy  against  her 
wardrobes;  not  a  word  of  their  fooHsh  talk  remained  in 
Claire's  mind.  A  run  around  the  lawn,  an  hour's  read- 
ing on  the  river-bank,  restored  the  tranquillity  of  that 
noble  and  intensely  active  mind. 

Her  grandfather  looked  upon  her  as  a  strange  being, 
altogether  out  of  place  in  his  family.  As  a  child  she 
annoyed  him  with  her  great,  honest  eyes,  her  straight- 
forwardness on  all  occasions,  and  also  because  he  did 
not  find  in  her  a  second  edition  of  his  own  passive  and 
submissive  daughter. 

"That  child  will  be  a  proud  chit  and  an  original,  like 
her  father,"  he  would  say  in  his  ugly  moods. 

How  much  better  he  liked  that  Httle  Chebe  girl  who 
used  to  come  now  and  then  and  play  in  the  avenues  at 
Savigny!  In  her,  at  least,  he  detected  the  strain  of  the 
common  people  like  himself,  with  a  sprinkling  of  ambi- 
tion and  envy,  suggested  even  in  those  early  days  by  a 
certain  little  smile  at  the  comer  of  the  mouth.  More- 
over, the  child  exhibited  an  ingenuous  amazement  and 
admiration  in  presence  of  his  wealth,  which  flattered  his 
parvenu  pride ;  and  sometimes,  when  he  teased  her,  she 
would  break  out  with  the  droll  phrases  of  a  Paris 
gamine,  slang  redolent  of  the  faubourgs,  seasoned  by 
her  pretty,  piquant  face,  inclined  to  pallor,  which  not 
even  superficiality  could  deprive  of  its  distinction.  So 
he  never  had  forgotten  her. 

On  this  occasion  above  all,  when  Sidonie  arrived  at 
Savigny  after  her  long  absence,  with  her  fluffy  hair,  her 
graceful  figure,  her  bright,  mobile  face,  the  whole  effect 
^mph^si^ed  by  me^nnerisms  suggestive  of  the  §ho|h 

[«0] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

girl,  she  produced  a  decided  sensation.  Old  Gardinois, 
wondering  greatly  to  see  a  tall  young  woman  in  place 
of  the  child  he  was  expecting  to  see,  considered  her 
prettier  and,  above  all,  better  dressed  than  Claire. 

It  was  a  fact  that,  when  IMademoiselle  Chebe  had 
left  the  train  and  was  seated  in  the  great  wagonette  from 
the  chateau,  her  appearance  was  not  bad;  but  she 
lacked  those  details  that  constituted  her  friend's  chief 
beauty  and  charm — a  distinguished  carriage,  a  con- 
tempt for  poses,  and,  more  than  all  else,  mental  tran- 
quillity. Her  prettiness  was  not  unlike  her  gowns,  of 
inexpensive  materials,  but  cut  according  to  the  style  of 
the  day — rags,  if  you  will,  but  rags  of  which  fashion, 
that  ridiculous  but  charming  fairy,  had  regulated  the 
color,  the  trimming,  and  the  shape.  Paris  has  pretty 
faces  made  expressly  for  costumes  of  that  sort,  very 
easy  to  dress  becomingly,  for  the  very  reason  that  they 
belong  to  no  type,  and  Mademoiselle  Sidonie's  face  was 
one  of  these. 

What  bliss  was  hers  when  the  carriage  entered  the 
long  avenue,  bordered  with  velvety  grass  and  primeval 
elms,  and  at  the  end  Savigny  awaiting  her  with  its  great 
gate  wide  open! 

And  how  thoroughly  at  ease  she  felt  amid  all  those 
refinements  of  wealth!  How  perfectly  that  sort  of  life 
suited  her!  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  never  had  known 
any  other. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  her  intoxication,  arrived  a 
letter  from  Frantz,  which  brought  her  back  to  the  reali- 
ties of  her  life,  to  her  wretched  fate  as  the  future  wife  of 
a  government  clerk,  which  transported  her,  whether  she 

[6i] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

would  or  no,  to  the  mean  little  apartment  they  would 
occupy  some  day  at  the  top  of  some  dismal  house,  whose 
heavy  atmosphere,  dense  with  privation,  she  seemed 
already  to  breathe. 

Should  she  break  her  betrothal  promise  ? 

She  certainly  could  do  it,  as  she  had  given  no  other 
pledge  than  her  word.  But  when  he  had  left  her,  who 
could  say  that  she  would  not  wish  him  back  ? 

In  that  little  brain,  turned  by  ambition,  the  strangest 
ideas  chased  one  another.  Sometimes,  while  Grand- 
father Gardinois,  who  had  laid  aside  in  her  honor  his 
old-fashioned  hunting-jackets  and  swanskin  waistcoats, 
was  jesting  with  her,  amusing  himself  by  contradicting 
her  in  order  to  draw  out  a  sharp  reply,  she  would  gaze 
steadily,  coldly  into  his  eyes,  without  replying.  Ah!  if 
only  he  were  ten  years  younger!  But  the  thought  of 
becoming  Madame  Gardinois  did  not  long  occupy  her. 
A  new  personage,  a  new  hope  came  into  her  life. 

After  Sidonie's  arrival,  Georges  Fromont,  who  was 
seldom  seen  at  Savigny  except  on  Sundays,  adopted  the 
habit  of  coming  to  dinner  almost  every  day. 

He  was  a  tall,  slender,  pale  youth,  of  refined  appear- 
ance. Having  no  father  or  mother,  he  had  been 
brought  up  by  his  uncle,  M.  Fromont^  and  was  looked 
upon  by  him  to  succeed  him  in  business,  and  probably 
to  become  Claire's  husband.  That  ready-made  future 
did  not  arouse  any  enthusiasm  in  Georges.  In  the  first 
place  business  bored  him.  As  for  his  cousin,  the  inti- 
mate good-fellowship  of  an  education  in  common  and 
mutual  confidence  existed  between  them,  but  nothing 
more,  at  least  on  his  side. 

[62] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

With  Sidonie,  on  the  contrary,  he  was  exceedingly 
embarrassed  and  shy,  and  at  the  same  time  desirous  of 
producing  an  effect — a  totally  different  man,  in  short. 
She  had  just  the  spurious  charm,  a  little  free,  which 
was  calculated  to  attract  a  superficial  nature,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  she  discovered  the  impression  that 
she  produced  upon  him. 

When  the  two  girls  were  walking  together  in  the 
park,  it  was  always  Sidonie  who  remembered  that  it 
was  time  for  the  train  from  Paris  to  arrive.  They 
would  go  together  to  the  gate  to  meet  the  travellers,  and 
Georges's  first  glance  was  always  for  Mademoiselle 
Chebe,  who  remained  a  little  behind  her  friend,  but 
with  the  poses  and  airs  that  go  halfway  to  meet  the  eyes. 
That  manoeuvring  between  them  lasted  some  time. 
They  did  not  mention  love,  but  all  the  words,  all  the 
smiles  they  exchanged  were  full  cf  silent  avowals. 

One  cloudy  and  threatening  summer  evening,  when 
the  two  friends  had  left  the  table  as  soon  as  dinner  was 
at  an  end  and  were  walking  in  the  long,  shady  avenue, 
Georges  joined  them.  They  were  talking  upon  indif- 
ferent subjects,  crunching  the  gravel  beneath  their 
idling  footsteps,  when  Madame  Fromont's  voice,  from 
the  chateau,  called  Claire  away.  Georges  and  Sidonie 
were  left  alone.  They  continued  to  walk  along  the 
avenue,  guided  by  the  uncertain  whiteness  of  the  path, 
without  speaking  of  drawing  nearer  to  each  other. 

A  warm  wind  rustled  among  the  leaves.  The  ruf- 
fled surface  of  the  pond  lapped  softly  against  the  arches 
of  the  little  bridge ;  and  the  blossoms  of  the  acacias  and 
lindens,  detached  by  the  breeze,  whirled  about  in  cir- 

[63] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

clcs,  perfuming  the  electricity-laden  air.  They  felt 
themselves  surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  of  storm,  vi- 
brant and  penetrating.  Dazzling  flashes  of  heat  passed 
before  their  troubled  eyes,  like  those  that  played  along 
the  horizon. 

"Oh!  what  lovely  glow-worms!"  exclaimed  Sidonie, 
embarrassed  by  the  oppressive  silence  broken  by  so 
many  mysterious  sounds. 

On  the  edge  of  the  greensward  a  blade  of  grass  here 
and  there  was  illuminated  by  a  tiny,  green,  flickering 
light.  She  stooped  to  lift  one  on  her  glove.  Georges 
knelt  close  beside  her;  and  as  they  leaned  down,  their 
hair  and  cheeks  touching,  they  gazed  at  each  other  for 
a  moment  by  the  light  of  the  glow-worms.  How  weird 
and  fascinating  she  seemed  to  him  in  that  green  light, 
which  shone  upon  her  face  and  died  away  in  the  fine 
network  of  her  waving  hair!  He  put  his  arm  around 
her  waist,  and  suddenly,  feeling  that  she  abandoned 
herself  to  him,  he  clasped  her  in  a  long,  passionate 
embrace. 

*'What  are  you  looking  for?"  asked  Claire,  suddenly 
coming  up  in  the  shadow  behind  them. 

Taken  by  surprise,  and  with  a  choking  sensation  in 
his  throat,  Georges  trembled  so  that  he  could  not  reply. 
Sidonie,  on  the  other  hand,  rose  with  the  utmost  cool- 
ness, and  said  as  she  shook  out  her  skirt: 

"The  glow-worms.  See  how  many  of  them  there  are 
to-night.    And  how  they  sparkle." 

Her  eyes  also  sparkled  with  extraordinary  brilliancy. 

"The  storm  makes  them,  I  suppose,"  murmured 
Georges,  still  trembling. 


FROMONT  AND  RISI.ER 

The  storm  was  indeed  near.  At  brief  intervals  great 
clouds  of  leaves  and  dust  whirled  from  one  end  of  the 
avenue  to  the  other.  They  walked  a  few  steps  far- 
ther, then  all  three  returned  to  the  house.  The  young 
women  took  their  work,  Georges  tried  to  read  a  news- 
paper, while  Madame  Fromont  polished  her  rings  and 
M.  Gardinois  and  his  son-in-law  played  biUiards  in 
the  adjoining  room. 

How  long  that  evening  seemed  to  Sidonie!  She 
had  but  one  wish,  to  be  alone — alone  with  her 
thoughts. 

But,  in  the  silence  of  her  little  bedroom,  when  she 
had  put  out  her  light,  which  interferes  with  dreams  by 
casting  too  bright  an  illumination  upon  reality,  what 
schemes,  what  transports  of  delight!  Georges  loved 
her,  Georges  Fromont,  the  heir  of  the  factory!  They 
would  marry;  she  would  be  rich.  For  in  that  mer- 
cenary little  heart  the  first  kiss  of  love  had  awakened 
no  ideas  save  those  of  ambition  and  a  life  of  luxury. 

To  assure  herself  that  her  lover  was  sincere,  she  tried 
to  recall  the  scene  under  the  trees  to  its  most  trifling  de- 
tails, the  expression  of  his  eyes,  the  warmth  of  his  em- 
brace, the  vows  uttered  brokenly,  lips  to  hps,  in  that 
weird  light  shed  by  the  glow-worms,  which  one  solemn 
moment  had  fixed  forever  in  her  heart. 

Oh !  the  glow-worms  of  Savigny ! 

All  night  long  they  twinkled  like  stars  before  her 
closed  eyes.  The  park  was  full  of  them,  to  the  farthest 
limits  of  its  darkest  paths.  There  were  clusters  of  them 
all  along  the  lawns,  on  the  trees,  in  the  shrubbery.  The 
fine  gravel  of  the  avenues,  the  waves  of  the  river,  seemed 
§  [65] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

to  emit  green  sparks,  and  all  those  microscopic  flashes 
formed  a  sort  of  holiday  illumination  in  which  Savigny 
seemed  to  be  enveloped  in  her  honor,  to  celebrate  the 
betrothal  of  Georges  and  Sidonie. 

When  she  rose  the  next  day,  her  plan  was  formed. 
Georges  loved  her;  that  was  certain.  Did  he  contem- 
plate marrying  her?  She  had  a  suspicion  that  he  did 
not,  the  clever  minx!  But  that  did  not  frighten  her. 
She  felt  strong  enough  to  triumph  over  that  childish 
nature,  at  once  weak  and  passionate.  She  had  only  to 
resist  him,  and  that  is  exactly  what  she  did. 

For  some  days  she  was  cold  and  indifferent,  wilfully 
blind  and  devoid  of  memory.  He  tried  to  speak  to  her, 
to  renew  the  blissful  moment,  but  she  avoided  him, 
always  placing  some  one  between  them. 

Then  he  wrote  to  her. 

He  carried  his  notes  himself  to  a  hollow  in  a  rock 
near  a  clear  spring  called  ''The  Phantom,"  which  was 
in  the  outskirts  of  the  park,  sheltered  by  a  thatched 
roof.  Sidonie  thought  that  a  charming  episode.  In 
the  evening  she  must  invent  some  story,  a  pretext  of 
some  sort  for  going  to  ''The  Phantom"  alone.  The 
shadow  of  the  trees  across  the  path,  the  mystery  of  the 
night,  the  rapid  walk,  the  excitement,  made  her  heart 
beat  deliciously.  She  would  find  the  letter  saturated 
with  dew,  with  the  intense  cold  of  the  spring,  and  so 
white  in  the  moonlight  that  she  would  hide  it  quickly 
for  fear  of  being  surprised. 

And  then,  when  she  was  alone,  what  joy  to  open  it, 
to  decipher  those  magic  characters,  those  words  of  love 
which  swam  before  her  eyes,  surrounded  by  dazzling 

[66] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

blue  and  yellow  circles,  as  if  she  were  reading  her  letter 
in  the  bright  sunlight. 

"I  love  you!  Love  me!"  wrote  Georges  in  every 
conceivable  phrase. 

At  first  she  did  not  reply;  but  when  she  felt  that  he 
was  fairly  caught,  entirely  in  her  power,  she  declared 
herself  concisely: 

"I  never  will  love  any  one  but  my  husband." 

Ah !  she  was  a  true  woman  already,  was  little  Chfebe. 


[67] 


CHAPTER  V 

HOW  LITTLE  CEC^BE'S   STORY  ENDED 

JeANW^ILE  September  arrived.  The 
hunting  season  brought  together  a 
large,  noisy,  vulgar  party  at  the  cha- 
teau. There  were  long  dinners  at 
which  the  wealthy  bourgeois  lingered 
slothfully  and  wearily,  prone  to  fall 
asleep  like  peasants.  They  went  in 
carriages  to  meet  the  returning  hunters 
in  the  cool  air  of  the  autumn  evening.  The  mist  arose 
from  the  fields,  from  which  the  crops  had  been  gathered ; 
and  while  the  frightened  game  flew  along  the  stubble 
with  plaintive  cries,  the  darkness  seemed  to  emerge  from 
the  forests  whose  dark  masses  increased  in  size,  spread- 
ing out  over  the  fields. 

The  carriage  lamps  were  lighted,  the  hoods  raised, 
and  they  drove  quickly  homeward  with  the  fresh  air 
blowing  in  their  faces.  The  dining-hall,  brilliantly  il- 
luminated, was  filled  with  gayety  and  laughter. 

Claire  Fromont,  embarrassed  by  the  vulgarity  of 
those  about  her,  hardly  spoke  at  all.  Sidonie  was  at  her 
brightest.  The  drive  had  given  animation  to  her  pale 
complexion  and  Parisian  eyes.  She  knew  how  to  laugh, 
understood  a  little  too  much,  perhaps,  and  seemed  to 
the  male  guests  the  only  woman  in  the  party.    Her  suc- 

[68] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

cess  completed  Georges's  intoxication;  but  as  his  ad- 
vances became  more  pronounced,  she  showed  more  and 
more  reserve.  Thereupon  he  determined  that  she 
should  be  his  wife.  He  swore  it  to  himself,  with  the 
exaggerated  emphasis  of  weak  characters,  who  seem 
always  to  combat  beforehand  the  difficulties  to  which 
they  know  that  they  must  yield  some  day. 

It  was  the  happiest  moment  of  little  Chebe's  life. 
Even  aside  from  any  ambitious  project,  her  coquettish, 
false  nature  found  a  strange  fascination  in  this  intrigue, 
carried  on  mysteriously  amid  banquets  and  merry- 
makings. 

No  one  about  them  suspected  anything.  Claire  was 
at  that  healthy  and  delightful  period  of  youth  when  the 
mind,  only  partly  open,  clings  to  the  things  it  knows 
with  blind  confidence,  in  complete  ignorance  of  treach- 
ery and  falsehood.  M.  Fromont  thought  of  nothing 
but  his  business.  His  wife  polished  her  jewels  with 
frenzied  energy.  Only  old  Gardinois  and  his  little, 
gimlet-like  eyes  were  to  be  feared;  but  Sidonie  enter- 
tained him,  and  even  if  he  had  discovered  anything,  he 
was  not  the  man  to  interfere  with  her  future. 

Her  hour  of  triumph  was  near,  when  a  sudden,  un- 
foreseen disaster  blasted  her  hopes. 

One  Sunday  morning  M.  Fromont  was  brought  back 
fatally  wounded  from  a  hunting  expedition.  A  bullet 
intended  for  a  deer  had  pierced  his  temple.  The  cha- 
teau was  turned  upside-down. 

All  the  hunters,  among  them  the  unknown  bungler 
that  had  fired  the  fatal  shot,  started  in  haste  for  Paris. 
Claire,  frantic  with  grief,  entered  the  room  where  her 

[69] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

father  lay  on  his  deathbed,  there  to  remain;  and  Risler, 
being  advised  of  the  catastrophe,  came  to  take  Sidonie 
home. 

On  the  night  before  her  departure  she  had  a  final 
meeting  with  Georges  at  The  Phantom, — a  farewell 
meeting,  painful  and  stealthy,  and  made  solemn  by  the 
proximity  of  death.  They  vowed,  however,  to  love  each 
other  always;  they  agreed  upon  a  method  of  writing  to 
each  other.    Then  they  parted. 

It  was  a  sad  journey  home. 

Sidonie  returned  abruptly  to  her  e very-day  life,  es- 
corted by  the  despairing  grief  of  Risler,  to  whom  his 
dear  master's  death  was  an  irreparable  loss.  On  her 
arrival,  she  was  compelled  to  describe  her  visit  to  the 
smallest  detail;  discuss  the  inmates  of  the  chateau,  the 
guests,  the  entertainments,  the  dinners,  and  the  final 
catastrophe.  What  torture  for  her,  when,  absorbed  as 
she  was  by  a  single,  unchanging  thought,  she  had  so 
much  need  of  silence  and  solitude !  But  there  was  some- 
thing even  more  terrible  than  that. 

On  the  first  day  after  her  return  Frantz  resumed  his 
former  place;  and  the  glances  with  which  he  followed 
her,  the  words  he  addressed  to  her  alone,  seemed  to  her 
exasperating  beyond  endurance. 

Despite  all  his  shyness  and  distrust  of  himself,  the 
poor  fellow  believed  that  he  had  some  rights  as  an 
accepted  and  impatient  lover,  and  little  Chebe  was 
obliged  to  emerge  from  her  dreams  to  reply  to  that 
creditor,  and  to  postpone  once  more  the  maturity  of 
his  claim. 

A  day  came,  however,  when  indecision  ceased  to  be 

[70] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

possible.  She  had  promised  to  marry  Frantz  when  he 
had  obtained  a  good  situation;  and  now  an  engineer's 
berth  in  the  South,  at  the  smelting-fumaces  of  Grand' 
Combe,  was  offered  to  him.  That  was  sufficient  for  the 
support  of  a  modest  establishment. 

There  was  no  way  of  avoiding  the  question.  She 
must  either  keep  her  promise  or  invent  an  excuse 
for  breaking  it.  But  what  excuse  could  she  in- 
vent? 

In  that  pressing  emergency,  she  thought  of  Desiree. 
Although  the  lame  little  girl  had  never  confided  in  her, 
she  knew  of  her  great  love  for  Frantz.  Long  ago  she 
had  detected  it,  with  her  coquette's  eyes,  bright  and 
changing  mirrors,  which  reflected  all  the  thoughts  of 
others  without  betraying  any  of  her  own.  It  may  be 
that  the  thought  that  another  woman  loved  her  be- 
trothed had  made  Frantz' s  love  more  endurable  to  her 
at  first;  and,  just  as  we  place  statues  on  tombstones  to 
make  them  appear  less  sad,  Desiree's  pretty,  little,  pale 
face  at  the  threshold  of  that  uninviting  future  had  made 
it  seem  less  forbidding  to  her. 

Now  it  provided  her  with  a  simple  and  honorable 
pretext  for  freeing  herself  from  her  promise. 

"No!  I  tell  you,  mamma,"  she  said  to  Madame 
Chebe  one  day,  "I  never  will  consent  to  make  a  friend 
like  her  unhappy.  I  should  suffer  too  much  from  re- 
morse,— poor  Desiree!  Haven't  you  noticed  how  badly 
she  looks  since  I  came  home;  what  a  beseeching  way 
she  has  of  looking  at  me  ?  No,  I  won't  cause  her  that 
sorrow;  I  won't  take  away  her  Frantz." 

Even  while  she  admired  her  daughter's  generous 

[71] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

spirit,  Madame  Chebe  looked  upon  that  as  a  rather 
exaggerated  sacrifice,  and  remonstrated  with  her. 

''Take  care,  my  child;  we  aren't  rich.  A  husband 
like  Frantz  doesn't  turn  up  every  day." 

"Very  well!  then  I  won't  marry  at  all,"  declared 
Sidonie  flatly,  and,  deeming  her  pretext  an  excellent 
one,  she  clung  persistently  to  it.  Nothing  could  shake 
her  determination,  neither  the  tears  shed  by  Frantz, 
who  was  exasperated  by  her  refusal  to  fulfil  her  prom- 
ise, enveloped  as  it  was  in  vague  reasons  which  she 
would  not  even  explain  to  him,  nor  the  entreaties  of 
Risler,  in  whose  ear  Madame  Chebe  had  mysteriously 
mumbled  her  daughter's  reasons,  and  who  in  spite  of 
everything  could  not  but  admire  such  a  sacrifice. 

''Don't  revile  her,  I  tell  you!  She's  an  angelP^  he 
said  to  his  brother,  striving  to  soothe  him. 

^'Ah!  yes,  she  is  an  angel,"  assented  Madame  Chebe 
with  a  sigh,  so  that  the  poor  betrayed  lover  had  not 
even  the  right  to  complain.  Driven  to  despair,  he  de- 
termined to  leave  Paris,  and  as  Grand'  Combe  seemed 
too  near  in  his  frenzied  longing  for  flight,  he  asked  and 
obtained  an  appointment  as  overseer  on  the  Suez  Canal 
at  Ismaiha.  He  went  away  without  knowing,  or  caring 
to  know  aught  of,  Desiree's  love;  and  yet,  when  he  went 
to  bid  her  farewell,  the  dear  little  cripple  looked  up  into 
his  face  with  her  shy,  pretty  eyes,  in  which  were  plainly 
written  the  words: 

"I  love  you,  if  she  does  not." 

But  Frantz  Risler  did  not  know  how  to  read  what 
was  written  in  those  eyes. 

Fortunately,  hearts  that  are  accustomed  to  suffer 

[72] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

have  an  infinite  store  of  patience.  When  her  friend 
had  gone,  the  lame  girl,  with  her  charming  morsel  of 
illusion,  inherited  from  her  father  and  refined  by  her 
feminine  nature,  returned  bravely  to  her  work,  saying 
to  herself: 

"I  will  wait  for  him." 

And  thereafter  she  spread  the  wings  of  her  birds  to 
their  fullest  extent,  as  if  they  were  all  going,  one  after 
another,  to  Ismailia  in  Egypt.  And  that  was  a  long 
distance ! 

Before  sailing  from  Marseilles,  young  Risler  wrote 
Sidonie  a  farewell  letter,  at  once  laughable  and  touch- 
ing, wherein,  mingling  the  most  technical  details  with 
the  most  heartrending  adieux,  the  unhappy  engineer 
declared  that  he  was  about  to  set  sail,  with  a  broken 
heart,  on  the  transport  Sahib,  "a  sailing-ship  and 
steamship  combined,  with  engines  of  fifteen-hundred- 
horse  power,"  as  if  he  hoped  that  so  considerable  a 
capacity  would  make  an  impression  on  his  ungrateful 
betrothed,  and  cause  her  ceaseless  remorse.  But  Si- 
donie had  very  different  matters  on  her  mind. 

She  was  beginning  to  be  disturbed  by  Georges' s  si- 
lence. Since  she  left  Savigny  she  had  heard  from  him 
only  once.  All  her  letters  were  left  unanswered.  To 
be  sure,  she  knew  through  Risler  that  Georges  was  very 
busy,  and  that  his  uncle's  death  had  thrown  the  man- 
agement of  the  factory  upon  him,  imposing  upon  him  a 
responsibility  that  was  beyond  his  strength.  But  to 
abandon  her  without  a  word ! 

From  the  window  on  the  landing,  where  she  had  re- 
sumed her  silent  observations — for  she  had  so  arranged 

[73] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

matters  as  not  to  return  to  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire — little 
Chebe  tried  to  distinguish  her  lover,  watched  him  as  he 
went  to  and  fro  across  the  yards  and  among  the  build- 
ings; and  in  the  afternoon,  when  it  was  time  for  the 
train  to  start  for  Savigny,  she  saw  him  enter  his  carriage 
to  go  to  his  aunt  and  cousin,  who  were  passing  the 
early  months  of  their  period  of  mourning  at  the  grand- 
father's chateau  in  the  country. 

All  this  excited  and  alarmed  her;  and  the  proximity 
of  the  factory  rendered  Georges' s  avoidance  of  her  even 
more  apparent.  To  think  that  by  raising  her  voice  a 
little  she  could  make  him  turn  toward  the  place  where 
she  stood!  To  think  that  they  were  separated  only  by 
a  wall!  And  yet,  at  that  moment  they  were  very  far 
apart. 

Do  you  remember,  little  Chebe,  that  unhappy  winter 
evening  when  the  excellent  Risler  rushed  into  your 
parents'  room  with  an  extraordinary  expression  of 
countenance,  exclaiming,  "Great  news!'^? 

Great  news,  indeed!  Georges  Fromont  had  just  in- 
formed him  that,  in  accordance  with  his  uncle's  last 
wishes,  he  was  to  marry  his  cousin  Claire,  and  that,  as 
he  was  certainly  unequal  to  the  task  of  carrying  on  the 
business  alone,  he  had  resolved  to  take  him,  Risler,  for 
a  partner,  under  the  firm  name  of  Fromont  Jeune 
AND  Risler  AIne. 

How  did  you  succeed,  little  Chebe,  in  maintaining 
your  self-possession  when  you  learned  that  the  factory 
had  eluded  your  grasp  and  that  another  woman  had 
taken  your  place ?  What  a  terrible  evening! — Madame 
Chhhe  sat  by  the  table  mending;  M.  Ch^be  before  the 

[74] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

fire  drying  his  clothes,  which  were  wet  through  by  his 
having  walked  a  long  distance  in  the  rain.  Oh!  that 
miserable  room,  overflowing  with  gloom  and  ennui! 
The  lamp  gave  a  dim  light.  The  supper,  hastily  pre- 
pared, had  left  in  the  room  the  odor  of  the  poor  man's 
kitchen.  And  Risler,  intoxicated  with  joy,  talking  with 
increasing  animation,  laid  great  plans! 

All  these  things  tore  your  heart,  and  made  the 
treachery  still  more  horrible  by  the  contrast  between  the 
riches  that  eluded  your  outstretched  hand  and  the 
ignoble  mediocrity  in  which  you  were  doomed  to  pass 
your  life. 

Sidonie  was  seriously  ill  for  a  long  while.  As  she  lay 
in  bed,  whenever  the  window-panes  rattled  behind  the 
curtains,  the  unhappy  creature  fancied  that  Georges' s 
wedding-coaches  were  driving  through  the  street;  and 
she  had  paroxysms  of  nervous  excitement,  without 
words  and  inexplicable,  as  if  a  fever  of  wrath  were  con- 
suming her. 

At  last,  time  and  youthful  strength,  her  mother's 
care,  and,  more  than  all,  the  attentions  of  Desiree,  who 
now  knew  of  the  sacrifice  her  friend  had  made  for  her, 
triumphed  over  the  disease.  But  for  a  long  while  Si- 
donie was  very  weak,  oppressed  by  a  deadly  melan- 
choly, by  a  constant  longing  to  weep,  which  played 
havoc  with  her  nervous  system. 

Sometimes  she  talked  of  travelling,  of  leaving  Paris. 
At  other  times  she  insisted  that  she  must  enter  a  con- 
vent. Her  friends  were  sorely  perplexed,  and  strove  to 
discover  the  cause  of  that  singular  state  of  mind,  which 
was  even  more  alarming  than  her  illness;   when  she 

[75] 


ALPHOXSE  DAFDET 

toll;  besccRtoCbermd- 


ShelDicddKdder  Rider!   She  neiv  had  dued  Id 
ft;  Inft kms Ik iHoB sIk iMd  ahim^ kvvvd 


a  sun^isg  Id  evenrbod^,  to  Risla' 
di  aH;  bnt  fiUle  Qrfhp  ms  so  pRt^,  her  tyLs 
so  soft  iriKB  de  spUBcd  at  bn,  tint  die  honest 
UK  as  fond  off  her  as  a  fool!    In- 
deed, it  maj  be  dot  love  had  hm  in  lis  heait  for  a  long 
tiBciriaoBt  Ik  icafiapg  it 
AbA  tint  is  hov  it  hqppeBcd  that,  on  dKcwfn^gof 


^aed  viA  a  anfe  of  liiuimiii  at  dK 
on  die  ^— '^'"g  wlath  had  been  die  uuiuw  set- 
tiag  of  ten  yeus  ai  her  fife.  Tint  laiighlj  smBe,  in 
tteie  vas  a  touch  of  praioand  |aljf  and  ctf  scorn 
n  as  a  ^iwcm  feds  for  his  poor  be^i- 
cftoEBBf  aadicsBBa  to  tne  poor  scuj  cnwi 
idum  she  fencied  she  saw  up  at  dot  vandov,  in  die 
drplbs  of  die  past  and  the  daikness.  It  srcwid  to  say 
to  Claiic,  poiadng  at  Ae  fedoij: 
"WhatdoyoDsajtodBsfildeChae?  She  is  here 
yoasee!" 


[76] 


CHAPTER  VI 

'my  wife's  keception  day' 

iol^OON.    Tbe  Marais  is 

Sitting  Dear  the  door,  on  a  stx^ne 
which  once  sesred  as  a  hoise-bkck 
fcff  equestrians,  Riskar  waldies  with 
a  snuk  the  exit  from  the  factoiy-  He 
never  loses  his  enjoyment  <rf  the  out- 
spoken esteem  of  all  these  good  people 
wbcMn  he  knew  when  he  was  insig- 
nificant and  humHe  like  themselves.  The  "  Good-day, 
Monsieur  Risler,"  uttered  bv  so  many  diSeroit  vokes, 
all  in  the  same  affectionate  tcaie,  w:=— -  Hs  heait. 
The  children  accost  him  without  fear,  :  c-heaided 

designers,  half-woitroai,  half-artists,  shake  hands  wifli 
him  as  they  pass,  and  address  him  familiariy  as  "tfiOBi." 
Perhaps  there  is  a  little  too  much  familiarity  in  all  this, 
for  the  worthy  man  has  not  yet  begun  to  realize  the 
prestige  and  authority  of  his  new  station:  and  there 
was  some  cme  who  ccmsidered  this  £ree-and-€asy  man- 
ner very  humiliating.  But  that  SOToe  cme  can  not  see 
him  at  this  moment,  and  the  master  takes  advanta^je  of 
the  fact  to  bestow  a  hearty  greeting  upon  the  oki  boot- 
keeper,  S^tsmcMxl,  who  cranes  out  last  of  all,  eiect  and 
red-faced,  impriscaied  in  a  high  collar  and  bareheaded 
—-whatever  the  v^ather — for  fear  of  apoplexy, 

in] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

He  and  Risler  are  fellow-countrymen.  They  have 
for  each  other  a  profound  esteem,  dating  from  their 
first  employment  at  the  factory,  from  that  time,  long, 
long  ago,  when  they  breakfasted  together  at  the  little 
creamery  on  the  comer,  to  which  Sigismond  Planus 
goes  alone  now  and  selects  his  refreshment  for  the 
day  from  the  slate  hanging  on  the  wall. 

But  stand  aside!  The  carriage  of  Fromont  Jeune 
drives  through  the  gateway.  He  has  been  out  on  busi- 
ness all  the  morning;  and  the  partners,  as  they  walk 
toward  the  pretty  little  house  in  which  they  both  live 
at  the  end  of  the  garden,  discuss  matters  of  business  in 
a  friendly  way. 

"I  have  been  at  Prochasson's,"  says  Fromont. 
"They  showed  me  some  new  patterns,  pretty  ones  too, 
I  assure  you.  We  must  be  on  our  guard.  They  are 
dangerous  rivals." 

But  Risler  is  not  at  all  anxious.  He  is  strong  in  his 
talent,  his  experience;  and  then — but  this  is  strictly 
confidential — he  is  on  the  track  of  a  wonderful  in- 
vention, an  improved  printing-press,  something  that — 
but  we  shall  see.  Still  talking,  they  enter  the  garden, 
which  is  as  carefully  kept  as  a  public  park,  with 
round-topped  acacias  almost  as  old  as  the  build- 
ings, and  magnificent  ivies  that  hide  the  high,  black 
walls. 

Beside  Fromont  Jeune,  Risler  Aln^  has  the  appear- 
ance of  a  clerk  making  his  report  to  his  employer.  At 
every  step  he  stops  to  speak,  for  his  gait  is  heavy,  his 
mind  works  slowly,  and  words  have  much  difficulty  in 
finding  their  way  to  his  lips.    Oh,  if  he  could  see  the 

[78] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

little  flushed  face  up  yonder,  behind  the  window  on  the 
second  floor,  watching  everything  so  attentively! 

Madame  Risler  is  waiting  for  her  husband  to  come 
to  breakfast,  and  waxes  impatient  over  the  good  man's 
moderation.  She  motions  to  him  with  her  hand: 
"Come,  come!"  but  Risler  does  not  notice  it.  His 
attention  is  engrossed  by  the  httle  Fromont,  daughter 
of  Claire  and  Georges,  who  is  taking  a  sun-bath,  bloom- 
ing like  a  flov.er  amid  her  lace  in  her  nurse's  arms. 
How  pretty  she  is! — "She  is  your  very  picture,  Ma- 
dame Chorche." 

"Do  you  think  so,  my  dear  Risler?  Why,  every- 
body says  she  looks  like  her  father." 

"Yes,  a  little.     But " 

And  there  they  all  stand,  the  father  and  mother, 
Risler  and  the  nurse,  gravely  seeking  resemblances  in 
that  miniature  model  of  a  human  being,  who  stares  at 
them  out  of  her  httle  eyes,  bhnking  with  the  noise  and 
glare.  Sidonie,  at  her  open  window,  leans  out  to  see 
what  they  are  doing,  and  why  her  husband  does  not 
come  up. 

At  that  moment  Risler  has  taken  the  tiny  creature 
in  his  arms,  the  whole  fascinating  bundle  of  white 
draperies  and  light  ribbons,  and  is  trying  to  make  it 
laugh  and  crow  with  baby-talk  and  gestures  worthy  of 
a  grandfather.  How  old  he  looks,  poor  man!  His 
tall  body,  which  he  contorts  for  the  child's  amusement, 
his  hoarse  voice,  which  becomes  a  low  growl  when  he 
tries  to  soften  it,  are  absurd  and  ridiculous. 

Above,  the  wife  taps  the  floor  with  her  foot  and  mut- 
ters between  her  teeth: 

[79] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"The  idiot!" 

At  last,  weary  of  waiting,  she  sends  a  servant  to  tell 
Monsieur  that  breakfast  is  served;  but  the  game  is  so 
far  advanced  that  Monsieur  does  not  see  how  he  can 
go  away,  how  he  can  interrupt  these  explosions  of 
laughter  and  little  bird-like  cries.  He  succeeds  at 
last,  however,  in  giving  the  child  back  to  its  nurse, 
and  enters  the  hall,  laughing  heartily.  He  is  laughing 
still  v^hen  he  enters  the  dining-room;  but  a  glance 
from  his  wife  stops  him  short. 

Sidonie  is  seated  at  table  before  the  chafing-dish, 
already  filled.  Her  martyr-like  attitude  suggests  a  de- 
termination to  be  cross. 

"Oh!  there  you  are.     It's  very  lucky!" 

Risler  took  his  seat,  a  little  ashamed. 

"What  would  you  have,  my  love?  That  child  is 
so " 

"I  have  asked  you  before  now  not  to  speak  to  me  in 
that  way.     It  isn't  good  form." 

"What,  not  when  we're  alone?" 

"Bah!  you  will  never  learn  to  adapt  yourself  to  our 
new  fortune.  And  what  is  the  result  ?  No  one  in  this 
place  treats  me  with  any  respect.  Pere  Achille  hardly 
touches  his  hat  to  me  when  I  pass  his  lodge.  To  be 
sure,  I'm  not  a  Fromont,  and  I  haven't  a  carriage." 

"Come,  come,  little  one,  you  know  perfectly  well 
that  you  can  use  Madame  Chorche's  coup^.  She  al- 
ways says  it  is  at  our  disposal." 

"How  many  times  must  I  tell  you  that  I  don't  choose 
to  be  under  any  obligation  to  that  woman?" 

"O  Sidonie " 

[3o] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"Oh!  yes,  I  know,  it's  all  understood.  Madame 
Fromont  is  the  good  Lord  himself.  Every  one  is  for- 
bidden to  touch  her.  And  I  must  make  up  my  mind 
to  be  a  nobody  in  my  own  house,  to  allow  myself  to  be 
humiliated,  trampled  under  foot." 

"Come,  come,  little  one — " 

Poor  Risler  tries  to  interpose,  to  say  a  word  in  favor 
of  his  dear  Madame  "Chorche."  But  he  has  no  tact. 
This  is  the  worst  possible  method  of  effecting  a  recon- 
ciliation ;  and  Sidonie  at  once  bursts  forth : 

"I  tell  you  that  that  woman,  with  all  her  calm  airs, 
is  proud  and  spiteful.  In  the  first  place,  she  detests 
me,  I  know  that.  So  long  as  I  was  poor  little  Sidonie 
and  she  could  toss  me  her  broken  dells  and  old  clothes, 
it  was  all  right,  but  now  that  I  am  my  owti  mistress  as 
well  as  she,  it  vexes  her  and  humiliates  her.  Madame 
gives  me  advice  with  a  lofty  air,  and  criticises  what  I 
do.  I  did  wrong  to  have  a  maid.  Of  course!  Wasn't 
I  in  the  habit  of  waiting  on  myself  ?  She  never  loses  a 
chance  to  wound  me.  When  I  call  on  her  on  Wednes- 
days, you  should  hear  the  tone  in  which  she  asks  me, 
before  everybody,  how  'dear  Madame  Chebe'  is. — 
Oh!  yes.  I'm  a  Chebe  and  she's  a  Fromont.  One's 
as  good  as  the  other,  in  my  opinion.  My  grandfather 
was  a  druggist.  What  was  hers?  A  peasant  who  got 
rich  by  money-lending.  I'll  tell  her  so  one  of  these 
days,  if  she  shows  me  too  much  of  her  pride;  and  I'll 
tell  her,  too,  that  their  little  imp,  although  they  don't 
suspect  it,  looks  just  Hke  that  old  Pere  Gardinois,  and 
heaven  knows  he  isn't  handsome." 

"Oh!"  exclaims  Risler,  unable  to  find  words  to  reply. 
6  [St] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 


"/ 


'Oh!  yes,  of  course!  I  advise  you  to  admire  their 
child.  She's  always  ill.  She  cries  all  night  Hke  a  little 
cat.  It  keeps  me  awake.  And  afterward,  through  the 
day,  I  have  mamma's  piano  and  her  scales — tra,  la 
la  la!    If  the  music  were  only  worth  listening  to!" 

Risler  has  taken  the  wise  course.  He  does  not  say 
a  word  until  he  sees  that  she  is  beginning  to  calm  down 
a  little,  when  he  completes  the  soothing  process  with 
compliments. 

"How  pretty  we  are  to-day!  Are  we  going  out  soon 
to  make  some  calls,  eh?" 

He  resorts  to  this  mode  of  address  to  avoid  the  more 
familiar  form,  which  is  so  offensive  to  her. 

"No,  I  am  not  going  to  make  calls,"  Sidonie  replies 
with  a  certain  pride.  "On  the  contrary,  I  expect  to 
receive  them.    This  is  my  day." 

In  response  to  her  husband's  astounded,  bewildered 
expression  she  continues: 

"Why,  yes,  this  is  my  day.  Madame  Fromont  has 
one;  I  can  have  one  also,  I  fancy." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  honest  Risler,  looking 
about  with  some  little  uneasiness.  "So  that's  why  I 
saw  so  many  flowers  everywhere,  on  the  landing  and 
in  the  drawing-room." 

"Yes,  my  maid  went  down  to  the  garden  this  morn- 
ing. Did  I  do  wrong?  Oh!  you  don't  say  so,  but 
I'm  sure  you  think  I  did  wrong.  Darnel  I  thought 
the  flowers  in  the  garden  belonged  to  us  as  much  as  to 
the  Fromonts." 

"Certainly  they  do — but  you — it  would  Imve  been 

better  perhaps " 

[82] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"To  ask  leave?  That's  it — to  humble  myself  again 
for  a  few  paltry  chrysanthemums  and  two  or  three  bits 
of  green.  Besides,  I  didn't  make  any  secret  of  taking 
the  flowers;  and  when  she  comes  up  a  little  later " 

"Is  she  coming?    Ah!  that's  very  kind  of  her." 

Sidonie  turned  upon  him  indignantly. 

"What's  that?  Kind  of  her?  Upon  my  word,  if 
she  doesn't  come,  it  would  be  the  last  straw.  When  I 
go  every  Wednesday  to  be  bored  to  death  in  her  salon 
with  a  crowd  of  affected,  simpering  women!" 

She  did  not  say  that  those  same  Wednesdays  of 
Madame  Fromont's  were  very  useful  to  her,  that  they 
were  like  a  weekly  journal  of  fashion,  one  of  those 
composite  little  publications  in  which  you  are  told  how 
to  enter  and  to  leave  a  room,  how  to  bow,  how  to  place 
flowers  in  a  jardiniere  and  cigars  in  a  case,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  engravings,  the  procession  of  graceful, 
faultlessly  attired  men  and  women,  and  the  names  of 
the  best  modistes.  Nor  did  Sidonie  add  that  she  had 
entreated  all  those  friends  of  Claire's,  of  whom  she 
spoke  so  scornfully,  to  come  to  see  her  on  her  owti 
day,  and  that  the  day  was  selected  by  them. 

WiU  they  come?  Will  Madame  Fromont  Jeune  in- 
sult Madame  Risler  Aine  by  absenting  herself  on  her 
first  Friday?  The  thought  makes  her  almost  feverish 
with  anxiety. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  hurry!"  she  says  again  and 
again.  "Good  heavens!  how  long  you  are  at  your 
breakfast!" 

It  is  a  fact  that  it  is  one  of  honest  Risler's  ways  to 
eat  slowly,  and  to  light  his  pipe  at  the  table  while  he 

[83] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

sips  his  coffee.  To-day  he  must  renounce  these  cher- 
ished habits,  must  leave  the  pipe  in  its  case  because  of 
the  smoke,  and,  as  soon  as  he  has  swallowed  the  last 
mouthful,  run  hastily  and  dress,  for  his  wife  insists 
that  he  must  come  up  during  the  afternoon  and  pay 
his  respects  to  the  ladies. 

What  a  sensation  in  the  factory  when  they  see  Risler 
Aine  come  in,  on  a  week-day,  in  a  black  frock-coat 
and  white  cravat! 

"Are  you  going  to  a  wedding,  pray?"  cries  Sigis- 
mond,  the  cashier,  behind  his  grating. 

And  Risler,  not  without  a  feeling  of  pride,  replies: 

"This  is  my  wife's  reception  day!" 

Soon  everybody  in  the  place  knows  that  it  is  Sidonie's 
day;  and  Pere  Achille,  who  takes  care  of  the  garden, 
is  not  very  well  pleased  to  find  that  the  branches  of  the 
winter  laurels  by  the  gate  are  broken. 

Before  taking  his  seat  at  the  table  upon  which  he 
draws,  in  the  bright  Hght  from  the  tall  windows,  Risler 
has  taken  off  his  fine  frock-coat,  which  embarrasses 
him,  and  has  turned  up  his  clean  shirt-sleeves;  but 
the  idea  that  his  wife  is  expecting  company  preoccupies 
and  disturbs  him;  and  from  time  to  time  he  puts  on 
his  coat  and  goes  up  to  her. 

"Has  no  one  come?"  he  asks  timidly. 

"No,  Monsieur,  no  one." 

In  the  beautiful  red  drawing-room — for  they  have  a 
drawing-room  in  red  damask,  with  a  console  between 
the  windows  and  a  pretty  table  in  the  centre  of  the 
light-flowered  carpet — Sidonie  has  established  herself 
in  the  attitude  of  a  woman  holding  a  reception,  a  circle 

[84] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

of  chairs  of  many  shapes  around  her.  Here  and  there 
are  books,  reviews,  a  little  work-basket  in  the  shape  of 
a  game-bag,  with  silk  tassels,  a  bunch  of  violets  in  a 
glass  vase,  and  green  plants  in  the  jardinieres.  Every- 
thing is  arranged  exactly  as  in  the  Fromonts'  apart- 
ments on  the  floor  below;  but  the  taste,  that  invisible 
line  which  separates  the  distinguished  from  the  vulgar, 
is  not  yet  refined.  You  would  say  it  was  a  passable 
copy  of  a  pretty  genre  picture.  The  hostess's  attire, 
even,  is  too  new;  she  looks  more  as  if  she  were  making 
a  call  than  as  if  she  were  at  home.  In  Risler's  eyes 
everything  is  superb,  beyond  reproach;  he  is  preparing 
to  say  so  as  he  enters  the  salon,  but,  in  face  of  his  wife's 
wrathful  glance,  he  checks  himself  in  terror. 

"You  see,  it's  four  o'clock,"  she  says,  pointing  to 
the  clock  with  an  angry  gesture.  "No  one  will  come. 
But  I  take  it  especially  ill  of  Claire  not  to  come  up. 
She  is  at  home — I  am  sure  of  it — I  can  hear  her." 

Indeed,  ever  since  noon,  Sidonie  has  listened  intently 
to  the  slightest  sounds  on  the  floor  below,  the  child's 
crying,  the  closing  of  doors.  Risler  attempts  to  go 
down  again  in  order  to  avoid  a  renewal  of  the  conver- 
sation at  breakfast;  but  his  wife  will  not  allow  him  to 
do  so.  The  very  least  he  can  do  is  to  stay  with  her 
when  everybody  else  abandons  her,  and  so  he  remains 
there,  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  rooted  to  the  spot,  like 
those  people  who  dare  not  move  during  a  storm  for  fear 
of  attracting  the  lightning.  Sidonie  moves  excitedly 
about,  going  in  and  out  of  the  salon,  changing  the 
position  of  a  chair,  putting  it  back  again,  looking  at 
herself  as  she  passes  the  mirror,  and  ringing  for  her 

[85] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

maid  to  send  her  to  ask  Pere  Achille  if  no  one  has 
inquired  for  her.  That  Pere  Achille  is  such  a  spiteful 
creature!  Perhaps  when  people  have  come,  he  has 
said  that  she  was  out. 

But  no,  the  concierge  has  not  seen  any  one. 

Silence  and  consternation.  Sidonie  is  standing  at 
the  window  on  the  left,  Risler  at  the  one  on  the  right. 
From  there  they  can  see  the  little  garden,  where  the 
darkness  is  gathering,  and  the  black  smoke  which  the 
chimney  emits  beneath  the  lowering  clouds.  Sigis- 
mond's  window  is  the  first  to  show  a  light  on  the 
ground  floor;  the  cashier  trims  his  lamp  himself  with 
painstaking  care,  and  his  tall  shadow  passes  in  front 
of  the  flame  and  bends  double  behind  the  grating.  Si- 
donie's  wrath  is  diverted  a  moment  by  these  familiar 
details. 

Suddenly  a  small  coup^  drives  into  the  garden  and 
stops  in  front  of  the  door.  At  last  some  one  is  coming. 
In  that  pretty  whirl  of  silk  and  flowers  and  jet  and 
flounces  and  furs,  as  it  runs  quickly  up  the  step,  Sidonie 
has  recognized  one  of  the  most  fashionable  frequenters 
of  the  Fromont  salon,  the  wife  of  a  wealthy  dealer  in 
bronzes.  What  an  honor  to  receive  a  call  from  such 
an  one!  Quick,  quick!  the  family  takes  its  position, 
Monsieur  in  front  of  the  hearth,  Madame  in  an  easy- 
chair,  carelessly  turning  the  leaves  of  a  magazine. 
Wasted  pose!  The  fair  caller  did  not  come  to  see 
Sidonie ;  she  has  stopped  at  the  floor  below. 

Ah !  if  Madame  Georges  could  hear  what  her  neigh- 
bor says  of  her  and  her  friends! 

At  that  moment  the  door  opens  and  "Mademoiselle 

[86] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Planus"  is  announced.  She  is  the  cashier's  sister,  a 
poor  old  maid,  humble  and  modest,  who  has  made  it 
her  duty  to  make  this  call  upon  the  wife  of  her  brother's 
employer,  and  who  is  amazed  at  the  warm  welcome  she 
receives.  She  is  surrounded  and  made  much  of. 
"How  kind  of  you  to  come!  Draw  up  to  the  fire." 
They  overwhelm  her  with  attentions  and  show  great 
interest  in  her  slightest  word.  Honest  Risler's  smiles 
are  as  warm  as  his  thanks.  Sidonie  herself  displays  all 
her  fascinations,  overjoyed  to  exhibit  herself  in  her 
glory  to  one  who  was  her  equal  in  the  old  days,  and  to 
reflect  that  the  other,  in  the  room  below,  must  hear 
that  she  has  had  callers.  So  she  makes  as  much  noise 
as  possible,  moving  chairs,  pushing  the  table  around; 
and  when  the  lady  takes  her  leave,  dazzled,  enchanted, 
bewildered,  she  escorts  her  to  the  landing  with  a  great 
rustling  of  flounces,  and  calls  to  her  in  a  very  loud 
voice,  leaning  over  the  rail,  that  she  is  at  home  every 
Friday.     "You  understand,  every  Friday." 

Now  it  is  dark.  The  two  great  lamps  in  the  salon 
are  lighted.  In  the  adjoining  room  they  hear  the  ser- 
vant laying  the  table.  It  is  all  over.  Madame  Fro- 
mont  Jeune  will  not  come. 

Sidonie  is  pale  with  rage. 

"Just  fancy,  that  minx  can't  come  up  eighteen 
steps!  No  doubt  Madame  thinks  we're  not  grand 
enough  for  her.     Ah!  but  I'll  have  my  revenge." 

As  she  pours  forth  her  wrath  in  unjust  words,  her 
voice  becomes  coarse,  takes  on  the  intonations  of  the 
faubourg,  an  accent  of  the  common  people  which  be- 
trays the  ex-apprentice  of  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire. 

[87] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Risler  is  unlucky  enough  to  make  a  remark. 

"Who  knows?    Perhaps  the  child  is  ill." 

She  turns  upon  him  in  a  fury,  as  if  she  would  like  to 
bite  him. 

"Will  you  hold  your  tongue  about  that  brat?  After 
all,  it's  your  fault  that  this  has  happened  to  me.  You 
don't  know  how  to  make  people  treat  me  with  re- 
spect." 

And  as  she  closed  the  door  of  her  bedroom  violently, 
making  the  globes  on  the  lamps  tremble,  as  well  as  all 
the  knick-knacks  on  the  etageres,  Risler,  left  alone, 
stands  motionless  in  the  centre  of  the  salon,  looking 
with  an  air  of  consternation  at  his  white  cuffs,  his 
broad  patent-leather  shoes,  and  mutters  mechanically: 

"My  wife's  reception  day!" 


[88] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  TRUE  PEARL  AND  THE  FALSE 

'hat  can  be  the  matter?  What  have 
I  done  to  her?"  Claire  Fromont  very 
often  wondered  when  she  thought  of 
Sidonie. 

She  was  entirely  ignorant  of  what 
had  formerly  taken  place  between  her 
friend  and  Georges  at  Savigny.  Her 
own  life  was  so  upright,  her  mind  so 
pure,  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  divine  the  jealous, 
mean-spirited  ambition  that  had  grown  up  by  her  side 
within  the  past  fifteen  years.  And  yet  the  enigmatical 
expression  in  that  pretty  face  as  it  smiled  upon  her 
gave  her  a  vague  feeling  of  uneasiness  which  she  could 
not  understand.  An  affectation  of  politeness,  strange 
enough  between  friends,  was  suddenly  succeeded  by 
an  ill-dissembled  anger,  a  cold,  stinging  tone,  in  pres- 
ence of  which  Claire  was  as  perplexed  as  by  a  difficult 
problem.  Sometimes,  too,  a  singular  presentiment, 
the  ill-defined  intuition  of  a  great  misfortune,  was 
mingled  with  her  uneasiness;  for  all  women  have  in 
some  degree  a  kind  of  second  sight,  and,  even  in  the 
most  innocent,  ignorance  of  evil  is  suddenly  illumined 
by  visions  of  extraordinary  lucidity. 
From  time  to  time,  as  the  result  of  a  conversation 

[89] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

somewhat  longer  than  usual,  or  of  one  of  those  unex- 
pected meetings  when  faces  taken  by  surprise  allow 
their  real  thoughts  to  be  seen,  Madame  Fromont  re- 
flected seriously  concerning  this  strange  Httle  Sidonie; 
but  the  active,  urgent  duties  of  life,  with  its  accompani- 
ment of  affections  and  preoccupations,  left  her  no  time 
for  dwelling  upon  such  trifles. 

To  all  women  comes  a  time  when  they  encounter 
such  sudden  windings  in  the  road  that  their  whole 
horizon  changes  and  all  their  points  of  view  become 
transformed. 

Had  Claire  been  a  young  girl,  the  falling  away  of 
that  friendship  bit  by  bit,  as  if  torn  from  her  by  an 
unkindly  hand,  would  have  been  a  source  of  great 
regret  to  her.  But  she  had  lost  her  father,  the  object 
of  her  greatest,  her  only  youthful  affection;  then  she 
had  married.  The  child  had  come,  with  its  thrice 
welcome  demands  upon  her  every  moment.  More- 
over, she  had  with  her  her  mother,  almost  in  her 
dotage,  still  stupefied  by  her  husband's  tragic  death. 
In  a  life  so  fully  occupied,  Sidonie's  caprices  received 
but  little  attention;  and  it  had  hardly  occurred  to 
Claire  Fromont  to  be  surprised  at  her  marriage  to 
Risler.  He  was  clearly  too  old  for  her;  but,  after  all, 
what  difference  did  it  make,  if  they  loved  each  other? 

As  for  being  vexed  because  little  Chebe  had  attained 
that  lofty  position,  had  become  almost  her  equal,  her 
superior  nature  was  incapable  of  such  pettiness.  On 
the  contrary,  she  would  have  been  glad  with  all  her 
heart  to  know  that  that  young  wife,  whose  home  was 
so  near  her  own,  who  lived  the  same  life,  so  to  speak, 

[90] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

and  had  been  her  playmate  in  childhood,  was  happy 
and  highly  esteemed.  Being  most  kindly  disposed 
toward  her,  she  tried  to  teach  her,  to  instruct  her  in  the 
ways  of  society,  as  one  might  instruct  an  attractive 
provincial,  who  fell  but  little  short  of  being  altogether 
charming. 

Advice  is  not  readily  accepted  by  one  pretty  young 
woman  from  another.  When  Madame  Fromont  gave 
a  grand  dinner-party,  she  took  Madame  Risler  to  her 
bedroom,  and  said  to  her,  smiling  frankly  in  order  not 
to  vex  her:  "You  have  put  on  too  many  jewels,,  my 
dear.  And  then,  you  know,  with  a  high  dress  one 
doesn't  wear  flowers  in  the  hair."  Sidonie  blushed, 
and  thanked  her  friend,  but  wrote  down  an  additional 
grievance  against  her  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 

In  Claire's  circle  her  welcome  was  decidedly  cold. 
The  Faubourg  Saint- Germain  has  its  pretensions;  but 
do  not  imagine  that  the  Marais  has  none!  Those 
wives  and  daughters  of  mechanics,  of  wealthy  manu- 
facturers, knew  little  Chebe's  story;  indeed,  they  would 
have  guessed  it  simply  by  her  manner  of  making  her 
appearance  and  by  her  demeanor  among  them. 

Sidonie 's  efiforts  were  unavailing.  She  retained  the 
manners  of  a  shopgirl.  Her  slightly  artificial  amiabil- 
ity, sometimes  too  humble,  was  as  unpleasant  as  the 
spurious  elegance  of  the  shop;  and  her  disdainful  atti- 
tudes recalled  the  superb  airs  of  the  head  saleswomen 
in  the  great  drygoods  establishments,  arrayed  in  black 
silk  gowns,  which  they  take  off  in  the  dressing-room 
when  they  go  away  at  night — who  stare  with  an  im- 
posing air,  from  the  vantage-point  of  their  mountains 

[91] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

of  curls,  at  the  poor  creatures  who  venture  to  discuss 
prices. 

She  felt  that  she  was  being  examined  and  criticised, 
and  her  modesty  was  compelled  to  place  itself  upon  a 
war  footing.  Of  the  names  mentioned  in  her  presence, 
the  amusements,  the  entertainments,  the  books  of 
which  they  talked  to  her,  she  knew  nothing.  Claire 
did  her  best  to  help  her,  to  keep  her  on  the  surface, 
with  a  friendly  hand  always  outstretched;  but  many 
of  these  ladies  thought  Sidonie  pretty;  that  was  enough 
to  make  them  bear  her  a  grudge  for  seeking  admission 
to  their  circle.  Others,  proud  of  their  husbands'  stand- 
ing and  of  their  wealth,  could  not  invent  enough  un- 
spoken affronts  and  patronizing  phrases  to  humiliate 
the  little  parvenue. 

Sidonie  included  them  all  in  a  single  phrase :  "  Claire's 
friends — that  is  to  say,  my  enemies!"  But  she  was 
seriously  incensed  against  but  one. 

The  two  partners  had  no  suspicion  of  what  was 
taking  place  between  their  wives.  Risler,  continually 
engrossed  in  his  press,  sometimes  remained  at  his 
draughting- table  until  midnight.  Fromont  passed  his 
days  abroad,  lunched  at  his  club,  was  almost  never  at 
the  factory.     He  had  his  reasons  for  that. 

Sidonie's  proximity  disturbed  him.  His  capricious 
passion  for  her,  that  passion  that  he  had  sacrificed  to  his 
uncle's  last  wishes,  recurred  too  often  to  his  memory 
with  all  the  regret  one  feels  for  the  irreparable;  and, 
conscious  that  he  was  weak,  he  fled.  His  was  a  pliable 
nature,  without  sustaining  purpose,  intelligent  enough 
|;p  appreciate  Jijs  failings,  too  weak  to  gui4e  itself.    Oft 

[92] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

the  evening  of  Risler's  wedding — he  had  been  married 
but  a  few  months  himself — he  had  experienced  anew, 
in  that  woman's  presence,  all  the  emotion  of  the  stormy 
evening  at  Savigny.  Thereafter,  without  self-examina- 
tion, he  avoided  seeing  her  again  or  speaking  with  her. 
Unfortunately,  as  they  lived  in  the  same  house,  as 
their  wives  saw  each  other  ten  times  a  day,  chance 
sometimes  brought  them  together;  and  this  strange 
thing  happened — that  the  husband,  wishing  to  remain 
virtuous,  deserted  his  home  altogether  and  sought  dis- 
traction elsewhere. 

Claire  was  not  astonished  that  it  was  so.  She  had 
become  accustomed,  during  her  father's  lifetime,  to 
the  constant  comings  and  goings  of  a  business  life; 
and  during  her  husband's  absences,  zealously  perform- 
ing her  duties  as  wife  and  mother,  she  invented  long 
tasks,  occupations  of  all  sorts,  walks  for  the  child, 
prolonged,  peaceful  tarryings  in  the  sunlight,  from 
which  she  would  return  home,  overjoyed  with  the  little 
one's  progress,  deeply  impressed  with  the  gleeful  en- 
joyment of  all  infants  in  the  fresh  air,  but  with  a  touch 
of  their  radiance  in  the  depths  of  her  serious  eyes, 

Sidonie  also  went  out  a  great  deal.  It  often  hap- 
pened, toward  night,  that  Georges's  carriage,  driving 
through  the  gateway,  would  compel  Madame  Risler  to 
step  hastily  aside  as  she  was  returning  in  a  gorgeous 
costume  from  a  triumphal  promenade.  The  boule- 
vard, the  shop- windows,  the  purchases,  made  after  long 
deliberation  as  if  to  enjoy  to  the  full  the  pleasure  of 
purchasing,  detained  her  very  late.  They  would  ex- 
change a  bow,  a  cold  glance  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 

[93] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

case;  and  Georges  would  hurry  into  his  apartments, 
as  into  a  place  of  refuge,  concealing  beneath  a  flood 
of  caresses,  bestowed  upon  the  child  his  wife  held  out 
to  him,  the  sudden  emotion  that  had  seized  him. 

Sidonie,  for  her  part,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  every- 
thing, and  to  have  retained  no  other  feeling  but  con- 
tempt for  that  weak,  cowardly  creature.  Moreover, 
she  had  many  other  things  to  think  about. 

Her  husband  had  just  had  a  piano  placed  in  her  red 
salon,  between  the  windows. 

After  long  hesitation  she  had  decided  to  learn  to  sing, 
thinking  that  it  was  rather  late  to  begin  to  play  the 
piano;  and  twice  a  week  Madame  Dobson,  a  pretty, 
sentimental  blonde,  came  to  give  her  lessons  from 
twelve  o'clock  to  one.  In  the  silence  of  the  neighbor- 
hood the  a — a — a  and  o — o — o,  persistently  prolonged, 
repeated  again  and  again,  with  windows  open,  gave 
the  factory  the  atmosphere  of  a  boarding-school. 

And  it  was  in  reality  a  schoolgirl  who  was  practising 
these  exercises,  an  inexperienced,  wavering  little  soul, 
full  of  unconfessed  longings,  with  everything  to  learn 
and  to  find  out  in  order  to  become  a  real  woman.  But 
her  ambition  confined  itself  to  a  superficial  aspect  of 
things. 

"Claire  Fromont  plays  the  piano;  I  will  sing.  She 
is  considered  a  refined  and  distinguished  woman,  and 
I  intend  that  people  shall  say  the  same  of  me." 

Without  a  thought  of  improving  her  education, 
Sidonie  passed  her  life  running  about  among  milliners 
and  dressmakers.  *'What  are  people  going  to  wear 
this  winter?"  was  her  cry.    She  was  attracted  by  the 

[94] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

gorgeous  displays  in  the  shop-windows,  by  everything 
that  caught  the  eye  of  the  passers-by. 

The  one  thing  that  Sidonie  envied  Claire  more  than 
all  else  was  the  child,  the  luxurious  plaything,  berib- 
boned  from  the  curtains  of  its  cradle  to  its  nurse's  cap. 
She  did  not  think  of  the  sweet,  maternal  duties,  demand- 
ing patience  and  self-abnegation,  of  the  long  rockings 
when  sleep  would  not  come,  of  the  laughing  awaken- 
ings sparkling  with  fresh  water.  No!  she  saw  in  the 
child  naught  but  the  daily  walk.  It  is  such  a  pretty 
sight,  the  little  bundle  of  finery,  with  floating  ribbons 
and  long  feathers,  that  follows  young  mothers  through 
the  crowded  streets. 

When  she  wanted  company  she  had  only  her  parents 
or  her  husband.  She  preferred  to  go  out  alone.  The 
excellent  Risler  had  such  an  absurd  way  of  showing 
his  love  for  her,  playing  with  her  as  if  she  were  a  doll, 
pinching  her  chin  and  her  cheek,  capering  about  her, 
crying,  "Hou!  hou!"  or  staring  at  her  with  his  great, 
soft  eyes  like  an  affectionate  and  grateful  dog.  That 
senseless  love,  which  made  of  her  a  toy,  a  mantel  orna- 
ment, made  her  ashamed.  As  for  her  parents,  they 
were  an  embarrassment  to  her  in  presence  of  the  peo- 
ple she  wished  to  know,  and  immediately  after  her 
marriage  she  almost  got  rid  of  them  by  hiring  a  little 
house  for  them  at  Montrouge.  That  step  had  cut 
short  the  frequent  invasions  of  Monsieur  Chebe  and 
his  long  frock-coat,  and  the  endless  visits  of  good 
Madame  Chebe,  in  whom  the  return  of  comfortable 
circumstances  had  revived  former  habits  of  gossip  and 
pf  indolence. 

[95] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Sidonie  would  have  been  very  glad  to  rid  herself  of 
the  Delobelles  in  the  same  way,  for  their  proximity 
annoyed  her.  But  the  Marais  was  a  central  location 
for  the  old  actor,  because  the  boulevard  theatres  were 
so  near;  then,  too,  Desiree,  like  all  sedentary  persons, 
clung  to  the  familiar  outlook,  and  her  gloomy  court- 
yard, dark  at  four  o'clock  in  winter,  seemed  to  her 
like  a  friend,  like  a  familiar  face  which  the  sun  lighted 
up  at  times  as  if  it  were  smiling  at  her.  As  she  was 
unable  to  get  rid  of  them,  Sidonie  had  adopted  the 
course  of  ceasing  to  visit  them. 

In  truth,  her  life  would  have  been  lonely  and  de- 
pressing enough,  had  it  not  been  for  the  distractions 
which  Claire  Fromont  procured  for  her.  Each  time 
added  fuel  to  her  wrath.     She  would  say  to  herself: 

"Must  everything  come  to  me  through  her?" 

And  when,  just  at  dinner-time,  a  box  at  the  theatie 
or  an  invitation  for  the  evening  was  sent  to  her  from 
the  floor  below,  while  she  was  dressing,  overjoyed  at  the 
opportunity  to  exhibit  herself,  she  thought  of  nothing 
but  crushing  her  rival.  But  such  opportunities  became 
more  rare  as  Claire's  time  was  more  and  more  en- 
grossed by  her  child.  When  Grandfather  Gardinois 
came  to  Paris,  however,  he  never  failed  to  bring  the 
two  families  together.  The  old  peasant's  gayety,  for 
its  freer  expansion,  needed  little  Sidonie,  who  did  not 
take  alarm  at  his  jests.  He  would  take  them  all  four 
to  dine  at  Philippe's,  his  favorite  restaurant,  where  he 
knew  all  the  patrons,  the  waiters  and  the  steward,  would 
spend  a  lot  of  money,  and  then  take  them  to  a  reserved 
box  at  the  Op6ra-Comique  or  the  Palais-Royal, 

[96] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

At  the  theatre  he  laughed  uproariously,  talked 
familiarly  with  the  box-openers,  as  he  did  with  the 
waiters  at  Philippe's,  loudly  demanded  footstools  for 
the  ladies,  and  when  the  performance  was  over  insisted 
on  having  the  topcoats  and  fur  wraps  of  his  party  first 
of  all,  as  if  he  were  the  only  three-million  parvenu  in 
the  audience. 

For  these  somewhat  vulgar  entertainments,  from 
which  her  husband  usually  excused  himself,  Claire, 
with  her  usual  tact,  dressed  very  plainly  and  attracted 
no  attention.  Sidonie,  on  the  contrary,  in  all  her 
finery,  in  full  view  of  the  boxes,  laughed  with  all  her 
heart  at  the  grandfather's  anecdotes,  happy  to  have 
descended  from  the  second  or  third  gallery,  her  usual 
place  in  the  old  days,  to  that  lovely  proscenium  box, 
adorned  with  mirrors,  with  a  velvet  rail  that  seemed 
made  expressly  for  her  light  gloves,  her  ivory  opera- 
glass,  and  her  spangled  fan.  The  tawdry  glitter  of  the 
theatre,  the  red  and  gold  of  the  hangings,  were  genuine 
splendor  to  her.  She  bloomed  among  them  like  a 
pretty  paper  flower  in  a  filigree  jardiniere. 

One  evening,  at  the  performance  of  a  successful  play 
at  the  Palais-Royal,  among  all  the  noted  women  who 
were  present,  painted  celebrities  wearing  microscopic 
hats  and  armed  with  huge  fans,  their  rouge-besmeared 
faces  standing  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  boxes  in  the 
gaudy  setting  of  their  gowns,  Sidonie' s  behavior,  her 
toilette,  the  peculiarities  of  her  laugh  and  her  expression 
attracted  much  attention.  All  the  opera-glasses  in  the 
hall,  guided  by  the  magnetic  current  that  is  so  powerful 
under  the  great  chandeliers,  were  turned  one  by  onf 
1  [97] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

upon  the  box  in  which  she  sat.  Claire  soon  became 
embarrassed,  and  modestly  insisted  upon  changing 
places  with  her  husband,  who,  unluckily,  had  accom- 
panied them  that  evening. 

Georges,  youthful  and  elegant,  sitting  beside  Sidonie, 
seemed  her  natural  companion,  while  Risler  Ain6,  al- 
ways so  placid  and  self-effacing,  seemed  in  his  proper 
place  beside  Claire  Fromont,  who  in  her  dark  clothes 
suggested  the  respectable  woman  incog,  at  the  Bal  de 
r  Opera. 

Upon  leaving  the  theatre  each  of  the  partners  offered 
his  arm  to  his  neighbor.  A  box-opener,  speaking  to 
Sidonie,  referred  to  Georges  as  "your  husband,"  and 
the  little  woman  beamed  with  delight. 

"Your  husband!" 

That  simple  phrase  was  enough  to  upset  her  and  set 
in  motion  a  multitude  of  evil  currents  in  the  depths  of 
her  heart.  As  they  passed  through  the  corridors  and 
the  foyer,  she  watched  Risler  and  Madame  "Chorche" 
walking  in  front  of  them.  Claire's  refinement  of  man- 
ner seemed  to  her  to  be  vulgarized  and  annihilated  by 
Risler's  shuffling  gait.  "How  ugly  he  must  make  me 
look  when  we  are  walking  together!"  she  said  to  her- 
self. And  her  heart  beat  fast  as  she  thought  what 
a  charming,  happy,  admired  couple  they  would  have 
made,  she  and  this  Georges  Fromont,  whose  arm  was 
trembling  beneath  her  own. 

Thereupon,  when  the  blue-lined  carriage  drove  up  to 
the  door  of  the  theatre,  she  began  to  reflect,  for  the  first 
time,  that,  when  all  was  said,  Claire  had  stolen  her  place 
and  that  she  would  be  justified  in  trying  to  recover  it, 

[98] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  BREWERY  ON   THE  RUE  BLONDEL 

JFTER  his  marriage  Risler  had  given 
up  the  brewery.  Sidonie  would  have 
been  glad  to  have  him  leave  the 
house  in  the  evening  for  a  fashionable 
club,  a  resort  of  \^■ealthy,  well-dressed 
men;  but  the  idea  of  his  returning, 
amid  clouds  of  pipe-smoke,  to  his 
friends  of  earlier  days,  Sigismond, 
Delobelle,  and  her  own  father,  humiliated  her  and 
made  her  unhappy.  So  he  ceased  to  frequent  the 
place;  and  that  was  something  of  a  sacrifice.  It  was 
almost  a  glimpse  of  his  native  country,  that  brewery 
situated  in  a  remote  comer  of  Paris.  The  infrequent 
carriages,  the  high,  barred  windows  of  the  ground 
floors,  the  odor  of  fresh  drugs,  of  pharmaceutical  prep- 
arations, imparted  to  that  narrow  little  Rue  Blondel 
a  vague  resemblance  to  certain  streets  in  Basle  or 
Zurich. 

The  brewery  was  managed  by  a  Swiss  and  crowded 
with  men  of  that  nationality.  When  the  door  was 
opened,  through  the  smoke-laden  atmosphere,  dense 
with  the  accents  of  the  North,  one  had  a  vision  of  a 
vast,  low  room  with  hams  hanging  from  the  rafters, 
casks  of  beer  standing  in  a  row,  the  floor  ankle-deep 

[99] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

with  sawdust,  and  on  the  counter  great  salad-bowls 
filled  with  potatoes  as  red  as  chestnuts,  and  baskets 
of  pretzels  fresh  from  the  oven,  their  golden  knots 
sprinkled  with  white  salt. 

For  twenty  years  Risler  had  had  his  pipe  there,  a 
long  pipe  marked  with  his  name  in  the  rack  reserved 
for  the  regular  customers.  He  had  also  his  table,  at 
which  he  was  always  joined  by  several  discreet,  quiet 
compatriots,  who  listened  admiringly,  but  without  com- 
prehending them,  to  the  endless  harangues  of  Chebe 
and  Delobelle.  When  Risler  ceased  his  visits  to  the 
brewery,  the  two  last-named  worthies  likewise  turned 
their  backs  upon  it,  for  several  excellent  reasons.  In 
the  first  place,  M.  Chebe  now  lived  a  considerable  dis- 
tance away.  Thanks  to  the  generosity  of  his  children, 
the  dream  of  his  whole  life  was  realized  at  last. 

"When  I  am  rich,"  the  little  man  used  to  say  in  his 
cheerless  rooms  in  the  Marais,  "I  will  have  a  house  of 
my  own,  at  the  gates  of  Paris,  almost  in  the  country, 
a  little  garden  which  I  will  plant  and  water  myself. 
That  will  be  better  for  my  health  than  all  the  excite- 
ment of  the  capital." 

Well,  he  had  his  house  now,  but  he  did  not  enjoy 
himself  in  it.  It  was  at  Montrouge,  on  the  road  that 
runs  around  the  city.  "A  small  chalet,  with  garden," 
said  the  advertisement,  printed  on  a  placard  which 
gave  an  almost  exact  idea  of  the  dimensions  of  the 
property.  The  papers  were  new  and  of  rustic  design, 
the  paint  perfectly  fresh;  a  water-butt  planted  beside 
a  vine-clad  arbor  played  the  part  of  a  pond.  In  addi- 
tion to  all  these  advantages,  only  a  hedge  separated 

[lOO] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

this  paradise  from  another  "chalet  with  garden"  of 
precisely  the  same  description,  occupied  by  Sigismond 
Planus  the  cashier,  and  his  sister.  To  Madame  Chebe 
that  was  a  most  precious  circumstance.  When  the 
good  woman  was  bored,  she  would  take  a  stock  of  knit- 
ting and  darning  and  go  and  sit  in  the  old  maid's 
arbor,  dazzling  her  with  the  tale  of  her  past  splendors. 
Unluckily,  her  husband  had  not  the  same  source  of 
distraction. 

However,  everything  went  well  at  first.  It  was 
midsummer,  and  M.  Chebe,  always  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
was  busily  employed  in  getting  settled.  Each  nail  to 
be  driven  in  the  house  was  the  subject  of  leisurely  re- 
flections, of  endless  discussions.  It  was  the  same  with 
the  garden.  He  had  determined  at  first  to  make  an 
English  garden  of  it,  lawns  always  green,  winding  paths 
shaded  by  shrubbery.  But  the  trouble  of  it  was  that  it 
took  so  long  for  the  shrubbery  to  grow. 

"I  have  a  mind  to  make  an  orchard  of  it,"  said  the 
impatient  little  man. 

And  thenceforth  he  dreamed  of  nothing  but  veg- 
etables, long  lines  of  beans,  and  peach-trees  against  the 
wall.  He  dug  for  whole  mornings,  knitting  his  brows 
in  a  preoccupied  way  and  wiping  his  forehead  osten- 
tatiously before  his  wife,  so  that  she  would  say: 

"For  heaven's  sake,  do  rest  a  bit — you're  kilUng 
yourself." 

The  result  was  that  the  garden  was  a  mixture :  flow- 
ers and  fruit,  park  and  kitchen  garden ;  and  whenever 
he  went  into  Paris  M.  Chebe  was  careful  to  decorate 
his  buttonhole  with  a  rose  from  his  rose-bushes. 

[lOl] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

While  the  fine  weather  lasted,  the  good  people  did 
not  weary  of  admiring  the  sunsets  behind  the  fortifica- 
tions, the  long  days,  the  bracing  country  air.  Some- 
times, in  the  evening,  when  the  windows  were  open, 
they  sang  duets;  and  in  presence  of  the  stars  in  heaven, 
which  began  to  twinkle  simultaneously  with  the  lan- 
terns on  the  railway  around  the  city,  Ferdinand  would 
become  poetical.  But  when  the  rain  came  and  he 
could  not  go  out,  what  misery!  Madame  Chebe,  a 
thorough  Parisian,  sighed  for  the  narrow  streets  of  the 
Marais,  her  expeditions  to  the  market  of  Blancs- 
Manteaux,  and  to  the  shops  of  the  quarter. 

As  she  sat  by  the  window,  her  usual  place  for  sewing 
and  observation,  she  would  gaze  at  the  damp  little  gar- 
den, where  the  volubilis  and  the  nasturtiums,  stripped 
of  their  blossoms,  were  dropping  away  from  the  lattices 
with  an  air  of  exhaustion,  at  the  long,  straight  line  of 
the  grassy  slope  of  the  fortifications,  still  fresh  and 
green,  and,  a  little  farther  on,  at  the  comer  of  a  street, 
the  office  of  the  Paris  omnibuses,  with  all  the  points  of 
their  route  inscribed  in  enticing  letters  on  the  green 
walls.  Whenever  one  of  the  omnibuses  lumbered  away 
on  its  journey,  she  followed  it  with  her  eyes,  as  a  gov- 
ernment clerk  at  Cayenne  or  Noumea  gazes  after  the 
steamer  about  to  return  to  France;  she  made  the  trip 
with  it,  knew  just  where  it  would  stop,  at  what  point  it 
would  lurch  around  a  comer,  grazing  the  shop-windows 
with  its  wheels. 

As  a  prisoner,  M.  Chebe  became  a  terrible  trial.  He 
could  not  work  in  the  garden.  On  Sundays  the  fortifi- 
cations were  deserted;  he  could  no  longer  stmt  about 

[102] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

among  the  workingmen's  families  dining  on  the  grass, 
and  pass  from  group  to  group  in  a  neighborly  way,  his 
feet  encased  in  embroidered  slippers,  with  the  authori- 
tative demeanor  of  a  wealthy  landowner  of  the  vicinity. 
This  he  missed  more  than  anything  else,  consumed  as 
he  was  by  the  desire  to  make  people  think  about  him. 
So  that,  having  nothing  to  do,  having  no  one  to  pose 
before,  no  one  to  listen  to  his  schemes,  his  stories,  the 
anecdote  of  the  accident  to  the  Due  d' Orleans — a  similar 
accident  had  happened  to  him  in  his  youth,  you  remem- 
ber— the  unfortunate  Ferdinand  overwhelmed  his  wife 
with  reproaches. 

,  "Your    daughter    banishes    us — your    daughter    is 
ashamed  of  us " 

She  heard  nothing  but  that  "Your  daughter — your 

daughter — your  daughter "     For,  in  his  anger  with 

Sidonie,  he  denied  her,  throwing  upon  his  wife  the 
whole  responsibility  for  that  monstrous  and  unnatural 
child.  It  was  a  genuine  relief  for  poor  Madame  Chebe 
when  her  husband  took  an  omnibus  at  the  office  to  go 
and  hunt  up  Delobelle — ^whose  hours  for  lounging  were 
always  at  his  disposal — and  pour  into  his  bosom  all  his 
rancor  against  his  son-in-law  and  his  daughter. 

The  illustrious  Delobelle  also  bore  Risler  a  grudge, 
and  freely  said  of  him:  "He  is  a  dastard." 

The  great  man  had  hoped  to  form  an  integral  part 
of  the  new  household,  to  be  the  organizer  of  festivi- 
ties, the  arbiter  elegantiarum.  Instead  of  which,  Sidonie 
received  him  very  coldly,  and  Risler  no  longer  even 
took  him  to  the  brewery.  However,  the  actor  did  not 
complain  too  loud,  and  whenever  he  met  his  friend  he 

[103] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

overwhelmed  him  with  attentions  and  flattery;  for  he 
had  need  of  him. 

Weary  of  awaiting  the  discerning  manager,  seeing 
that  the  engagement  he  had  longed  for  so  many  years 
did  not  come,  it  had  occurred  to  Delobelle  to  purchase 
a  theatre  and  manage  it  himself.  He  counted  upon 
Risler  for  the  funds.  Opportunely  enough,  a  small 
theatre  on  the  boulevard  happened  to  be  for  sale,  as  a 
result  of  the  failure  of  its  manager.  Delobelle  men- 
tioned it  to  Risler,  at  first  very  vaguely,  in  a  wholly 
hypothetical  form — "There  would  be  a  good  chance  to 
make  a  fine  stroke."  Risler  listened  with  his  usual 
phlegm,  saying,  "Indeed,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
you."  And  to  a  more  direct  suggestion,  not  daring  to 
answer,  No,"  he  took  refuge  behind  such  phrases  as  "  I 
will  see" — "Perhaps  later" — "I  don't  say  no" — and 
finally  uttered  the  unlucky  words  "I  must  see  the 
estimates." 

For  a  whole  week  the  actor  had  delved  away  at  plans 
and  figures,  seated  between  his  wife  and  daughter,  who 
watched  him  in  admiration,  and  intoxicated  themselves 
with  this  latest  dream.  The  people  in  the  house  said, 
"Monsieur  Delobelle  is  going  to  buy  a  theatre."  On 
the  boulevard,  in  the  actors'  cafes,  nothing  was  talked 
of  but  this  transaction.  Delobelle  did  not  conceal  the 
fact  that  he  had  found  some  one  to  advance  the  funds; 
the  result  being  that  he  was  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of 
unemployed  actors,  old  comrades  who  tapped  him 
familiarly  on  the  shoulder  and  recalled  themselves  to 
his  recollection — "You  know,  old  boy."  He  promised 
engagements,   breakfasted   at   the   cafe,   wrote  letters 

[104] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

there,  greeted  those  who  entered  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers,  held  very  animated  conversations  in  comers; 
and  already  two  threadbare  authors  had  read  to  him 
a  drama  in  seven  tableaux,  which  was  "exactly  what 
he  wanted"  for  his  opening  piece.  He  talked  about 
"my  theatre!"  and  his  letters  were  addressed,  "Mon- 
sieur Delobelle,  Manager." 

When  he  had  composed  his  prospectus  and  made 
his  estimates,  he  went  to  the  factory  to  see  Risler,  who, 
being  very  busy,  made  an  appointment  to  meet  him  in 
the  Rue  Blondel;  and  that  same  evening,  Delobelle, 
being  the  first  to  arrive  at  the  brewery,  established 
himself  at  their  old  table,  ordered  a  pitcher  of  beer  and 
two  glasses,  and  waited.  He  waited  a  long  while,  with 
his  eye  on  the  door,  trembling  with  impatience.  When- 
ever any  one  entered,  the  actor  turned  his  head.  He 
had  spread  his  papers  on  the  table,  and  pretended  to 
be  reading  them,  with  animated  gestures  and  move- 
ments of  the  head  and  lips. 

It  was  a  magnificent  opportunity,  unique  in  its  way. 
He  already  fancied  himself  acting — for  that  was  the 
main  point — acting,  in  a  theatre  of  his  own,  roles  writ- 
ten expressly  for  him,  to  suit  his  talents,  in  which  he 
would  produce  all  the  effect  of 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  M.  Chebe  made  his 
appearance  amid  the  pipe-smoke.  He  was  as  sur- 
prised and  annoyed  to  find  Delobelle  there  as  Delobelle 
himself  was  by  his  coming.  He  had  written  to  his 
son-in-law  that  morning  that  he  wished  to  speak  with 
him  on  a  matter  of  very  serious  importance,  and  that 
he  would  meet  him  at  the  brewery.    It  was  an  affair 

[105] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

of  honor,  entirely  between  themselves,  from  man  to 
man.  The  real  fact  concerning  this  affair  of  honor 
was  that  M.  Chebe  had  given  notice  of  his  intention  to 
leave  the  little  house  at  Montrouge,  and  had  hired  a 
shop  with  an  entresol  in  the  Rue  du  Mail,  in  the  midst 
of  a  business  district.  A  shop?  Yes,  indeed!  And 
now  he  was  a  little  alarmed  regarding  his  hasty  step, 
anxious  to  know  how  his  son-in-law  would  take  it, 
especially  as  the  shop  cost  much  more  than  the  Mont- 
rouge house,  and  there  were  some  repairs  to  be  made 
at  the  outset.  As  he  had  long  been  acquainted  with 
his  son-in-law's  kindness  of  heart,  M.  Chebe  had  de- 
termined to  appeal  to  him  at  once,  hoping  to  lead  him 
into  his  game  and  throw  upon  him  the  responsibility 
for  this  domestic  change.  Instead  of  Risler  he  found 
Delobelle. 

They  looked  askance  at  each  other,  with  an  un- 
friendly eye,  like  two  dogs  meeting  beside  the  same 
dish.  Each  divined  for  whom  the  other  was  waiting, 
and  they  did  not  try  to  deceive  each  other. 

''Isn't  my  son-in-law  here?"  asked  M.  Chebe,  ey- 
ing the  documents  spread  over  the  table,  and  empha- 
sizing the  words  "my  son-in-law,"  to  indicate  that 
Risler  belonged  to  him  and  to  nobody  else. 

"I  am  waiting  for  him,"  Delobelle  replied,  gather- 
ing up  his  papers. 

He  pressed  his  lips  together,  as  he  added  with  a  dig- 
nified, mysterious,  but  always  theatrical  air: 

"It  is  a  matter  of  very  great  importance." 

"So  is  mine,"  declared  M.  Chebe,  his  three  hairs 
standing  erect  like  a  porcupine's  quills. 

[io6] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  his  seat  on  the  bench  beside 
Delobelle,  ordered  a  pitcher  and  two  glasses  as  the 
former  had  done,  then  sat  erect  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets  and  his  back  against  the  wall,  waiting  in 
his  turn.  The  two  empty  glasses  in  front  of  them, 
intended  for  the  same  absentee,  seemed  to  be  hurling 
defiance  at  each  other. 

But  Risler  did  not  come. 

The  two  men,  drinking  in  silence,  lost  their  patience 
and  fidgeted  about  on  the  bench,  each  hoping  that  the 
other  would  tire  of  waiting.  . 

At  last  their  ill-humor  overflowed,  and  naturally  poor 
Risler  received  the  whole  flood. 

"What  an  outrage  to  keep  a  man  of  my  years  wait- 
ing so  long!"  began  M.  Chebe,  who  never  mentioned 
his  great  age  except  upon  such  occasions. 

"I  believe,  on  my  word,  that  he  is  making  sport  of 
us,"  replied  M.  Delobelle. 

And  the  other: 

"No  doubt  Monsieur  had  company  to  dinner." 

"And  such  company!"  scornfully  exclaimed  the 
illustrious  actor,  in  whose  mind  bitter  memories  were 
awakened. 

"The  fact  is "  continued  M.  Chebe. 

They  drew  closer  to  each  other  and  talked.  The 
hearts  of  both  were  full  in  respect  to  Sidonie  and  Ris- 
ler. They  opened  the  flood-gates.  That  Risler,  with 
all  his  good-nature,  was  an  egotist  pure  and  simple,  a 
parvenu.  They  laughed  at  his  accent  and  his  bearing, 
they  mimicked  certain  of  his  peculiarities.  Then  they 
talked  about  his  household,  and,  lowering  their  voices. 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

they  became  confidential,  laughed  familiarly  together, 
were  friends  once  more. 

M.  Chebe  went  very  far:  "Let  him  beware!  he  has 
been  foolish  enough  to  send  the  father  and  mother  away 
from  their  daughter;  if  anything  happens  to  her,  he 
can't  blame  us.  A  girl  who  hasn't  her  parents'  ex- 
ample before  her  eyes,  you  understand " 

"Certainly — certainly,"  said  Delobelle;  "especially 
as  Sidonie  has  become  a  great  flirt.  However,  what 
can  you  expect?  He  will  get  no  more  than  he  de- 
serves.   No  man  of  his  age  ought  to Hush!  here 

he  is!" 

Risler  had  entered  the  room,  and  was  walking  tow- 
ard them,  distributing  hand-shakes  all  along  the 
benches. 

There  was  a  moment  of  embarrassment  between  the 
three  friends.  Risler  excused  himself  as  well  as  he 
could.  He  had  been  detained  at  home;  Sidonie  had 
company — Delobelle  touched  M.  Chebe's  foot  under 
the  table — and,  as  he  spoke,  the  poor  man,  decidedly 
perplexed  by  the  two  empty  glasses  that  awaited  him, 
wondered  in  front  of  which  of  the  two  he  ought  to  take 
his  seat. 

Delobelle  was  generous. 

"You  have  business  together.  Messieurs;  do  not  let 
me  disturb  you." 

He  added  in  a  low  tone,  winking  at  Risler: 

"I  have  the  papers." 

"The  papers?"  echoed  Risler,  in  a  bewildered  tone. 

"The  estimates,"  whispered  the  actor. 

Thereupon,  with  a  great  show  of  discretion,  he  with- 
[io8] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

drew  within  himself,  and  resumed  the  reading  of  his 
documents,  his  head  in  his  hands  and  his  fingers  in 
his  ears. 

The  two  others  conversed  by  his  side,  first  in  under- 
tones, then  louder,  for  M.  Chebe's  shrill,  piercing  voice 
could  not  long  be  subdued. — He  wasn't  old  enough  to 
be  buried,  deuce  take  it! — He  should  have  died  of 
ennui  at  Montrouge. — What  he  must  have  was  the 
bustle  and  life  of  the  Rue  de  Mail  or  the  Rue  du  Sen- 
tier — of  the  business  districts. 

"Yes,  but  a  shop?  Why  a  shop?"  Risler  timidly 
ventured  to  ask. 

"Why  a  shop? — why  a  shop?"  repeated  M.  Chebe, 
red  as  an  Easter  egg,  and  raising  his  voice  to  its  highest 
pitch.  "Why,  because  I'm  a  merchant.  Monsieur  Ris- 
ler, a  merchant  and  son  of  a  merchant.  Oh!  I  see 
what  you're  coming  at.  I  have  no  business.  But 
whose  fault  is  it?  If  the  people  who  shut  me  up  at 
Montrouge,  at  the  gates  of  Bicetre,  like  a  paralytic, 
had  had  the  good  sense  to  furnish  me  with  the  money 
to  start  in  business "  At  that  point  Risler  suc- 
ceeded in  silencing  him,  and  thereafter  only  snatches  of 
the  conversation  could  be  heard: — "a  more  convenient 
shop — high  ceilings — better  air — future  plans — enor- 
mous business — I  will  speak  when  the  time  comes — 
many  people  will  be  astonished." 

As  he  caught  these  fragments  of  sentences,  Delo- 
belle  became  more  and  more  absorbed  in  his  estimates, 
presenting  the  eloquent  back  of  the  man  who  is  not  lis- 
tening. Risler,  sorely  perplexed,  slowly  sipped  his 
beer  from  time  to  time  to  keep  himself  in  countenance. 

[109] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

At  last,  when  M.  Ch^be  had  grown  calm,  and  with 
good  reason,  his  son-in-law  turned  with  a  smile  to  the 
illustrious  Delobelle,  and  met  the  stem,  impassive 
glance  which  seemed  to  say,  "Well!  what  of  me?" 

"Ah!  Mon  Dieu ! — that  is  true,"  thought  the  poor 
fellow. 

Changing  at  once  his  chair  and  his  glass,  he  took 
his  seat  opposite  the  actor.  But  M.  Ch^be  had  not 
Delobelle's  courtesy.  Instead  of  discreetly  moving 
away,  he  took  his  glass  and  joined  the  others,  so  that 
the  great  man,  unwilling  to  speak  before  him,  solemnly 
replaced  his  documents  in  his  pocket  a  second  time, 
saying  to  Risler: 

"We  will  talk  this  over  later." 

Very  much  later,  in  truth,  for  M.  Ch^be  had  re- 
flected : 

"My  son-in-law  is  so  good-natured!  If  I  leave  him 
with  this  swindler,  who  knows  what  he  may  get  out 
of  him?" 

And  he  remained  on  guard.  The  actor  was  furious. 
It  was  impossible  to  postpone  the  matter  to  some  other 
day,  for  Risler  told  them  that  he  was  going  the  next 
day  to  spend  the  next  month  at  Savigny. 

"A  month  at  Savigny!"  exclaimed  M.  Ch^be,  in- 
censed at  the  thought  of  his  son-in-law  escaping  him. 
"How  about  business?" 

"Oh!  I  shall  come  to  Paris  every  day  with  Georges. 
Monsieur  Gardinois  is  very  anxious  to  see  his  little 
Sidonie." 

M.  Ch^be  shook  his  head.  He  considered  it  very 
imprudent.    Business  is  business.    A  man  ought  to  be 

[no] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

on  the  spot,  always  on  the  spot,  in  the  breach.  Who 
could  say? — the  factory  might  take  fire  in  the  night. 
And  he  repeated  sententiously :  "The  eye  of  the  mas- 
ter, my  dear  fellow,  the  eye  of  the  master,"  while  the 
actor — who  was  little  better  pleased  by  this  intended 
departure — opened  his  great  eyes,  giving  them  an  ex- 
pression at  once  cunning  and  authoritative  ^  the  verita- 
ble expression  of  the  eye  of  the  master. 

At  last,  about  midnight,  the  last  Montrouge  omnibus 
bore  away  the  tyrannical  father-in-law,  and  Delobelle 
was  able  to  speak. 

"Let  us  first  look  at  the  prospectus,"  he  said,  pre- 
ferring not  to  attack  the  question  of  figures  at  once; 
and  with  his  eyeglasses  on  his  nose,  he  began,  in  a 
declamatory  tone,  always  upon  the  stage:  "When  one 
considers  coolly  the  decrepitude  which  dramatic  art  has 
reached  in  France,  when  one  measures  the  distance 
that  separates  the  stage  of  Molifere " 

There  were  several  pages  Hke  that.  Risler  listened, 
puffing  at  his  pipe,  afraid  to  stir,  for  the  reader  looked 
at  him  every  moment  over  his  eyeglasses,  to  watch  the 
effect  of  his  phrases.  Unfortunately,  right  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  prospectus,  the  cafe  closed.  The  lights  were 
extinguished;  they  must  go. — And  the  estimates? — It 
was  agreed  that  they  should  read  them  as  they  walked 
along.  They  stopped  at  every  gaslight.  The  actor 
displayed  his  figures.  So  much  for  the  hall,  so  much 
for  the  lighting,  so  much  for  poor-rates,  so  much  for  the 
actors.     On  that  question  of  the  actors  he  was  firm. 

"The  best  point  about  the  afifair,"  he  said,  "is  that 
we  shall  have  no  leading  man  to  pay.    Our  leading 

[III] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

man  will  be  Bibi."  (When  Delobelle  mentioned  him- 
self, he  commonly  called  himself  Bibi.)  "A  leading 
man  is  paid  twenty  thousand  francs,  and  as  we  have 
none  to  pay,  it's  just  as  if  you  put  twenty  thousand 
francs  in  your  pocket.     Tell  me,  isn't  that  true?" 

Risler  did  not  reply.  He  had  the  constrained  man- 
ner, the  wandering  eyes  of  the  man  whose  thoughts  are 
elsewhere.  The  reading  of  the  estimates  being  con- 
cluded, Delobelle,  dismayed  to  find  that  they  were 
drawing  near  the  comer  of  the  Rue  des  Vieilles-Haudri- 
ettes,  put  the  question  squarely.  Would  Risler  advance 
the  money,  yes  or  no  ? 

''Well! — no,"  said  Risler,  inspired  by  heroic  courage, 
which  he  owed  principally  to  the  proximity  of  the  fac- 
tory and  to  the  thought  that  the  welfare  of  his  family 
was  at  stake. 

Delobelle  was  astounded.  He  had  believed  that  the 
business  was  as  good  as  done,  and  he  stared  at  his 
companion,  intensely  agitated,  his  eyes  as  big  as  sau- 
cers, and  rolling  his  papers  in  his  hand. 

"No,"  Risler  continued,  "I  can't  do  what  you  ask, 
for  this  reason." 

Thereupon  the  worthy  man,  slowly,  with  his  usual 
heaviness  of  speech,  explained  that  he  was  not  rich. 
Although  a  partner  in  a  wealthy  house,  he  had  no 
available  funds.  Georges  and  he  drew  a  certain  sum 
from  the  concern  each  month;  then,  when  they  struck 
a  balance  at  the  end  of  the  year  they  divided  the  profits. 
It  had  cost  him  a  good  deal  to  begin  housekeeping: 
all  his  savings.  It  was  still  four  months  before  the 
inventory,    Where  was  he  to  obtain  the  30,009  francs 

[IJ2] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

to  be  paid  down  at  once  for  the  theatre?  And  then, 
beyond  all  that,  the  affair  could  not  be  successful. 

"Why,  it  must  succeed.  Bibi  will  be  there!"  As 
he  s^poke,  poor  Bibi  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height; 
but  Risler  was  determined,  and  all  Bibi's  arguments 
met  the  same  refusal — ''Later,  in  two  or  three  years,  I 
don't  say  something  may  not  be  done." 

The  actor  fought  for  a  long  time,  yielding  his  ground 
inch  by  inch.  He  proposed  revising  his  estimates. 
The  thing  might  be  done  cheaper.  ''It  would  still  be 
too  dear  for  me,"  Risler  interrupted.  "My  name 
doesn't  belong  to  me.  It  is  a  part  of  the  firm.  I  have 
no  right  to  pledge  it.  Imagine  my  going  into  bank- 
ruptcy!"    His  voice  trembled  as  he  uttered  the  word. 

"But  if  everything  is  in  my  name,"  said  Delobelle, 
who  had  no  superstition.  He  tried  everything,  invoked 
the  sacred  interests  of  art,  went  so  far  as  to  mention  the 
fascinating  actresses  whose  alluring  glances — Risler 
laughed  aloud. 

"Come,  come,  you  rascal!  What's  that  you're  say- 
ing? You  forget  that  we're  both  married  men,  and 
that  it  is  very  late  and  our  wives  are  expecting  us. — 
No  ill-will,  eh  ? — This  is  not  a  refusal,  you  understand. 
— By  the  way,  come  and  see  me  after  the  inventory. 
W'e  will  talk  it  over  again.  Ah!  there's  Pere  Achille 
putting  out  his  gas. — I  must  go  in.     Good-night." 

It  was  after  one  o'clock  when  the  actor  returned 
home.  The  two  women  were  waiting  for  him,  working 
as  usual,  but  with  a  sort  of  feverish  activity  which  was 
strange  to  them.  Every  moment  the  great  scissors 
that  Mamma  Delobelle  used  to  cut  the  brass  wire  were 
8  ["3] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

seized  with  strange  fits  of  trembling,  and  D^sir^e's  little 
fingers,  afe  she  mounted  an  insect,  moved  so  fast  that  it 
made  one  dizzy  to  watch  them.  Even  the  long  featlicrs 
of  the  little  birds  scattered  about  on  the  table  before 
her  seemed  more  brilliant,  more  richly  colored,  than 
on  other  days.  It  was  because  a  lovely  visitor  named 
Hope  had  called  upon  them  that  evening.  She  had 
made  the  tremendous  effort  required  to  climb  five  dark 
flights  of  stairs,  and  had  opened  the  door  of  the  little 
room  to  cast  a  luminous  glance  therein.  However  much 
you  may  have  been  deceived  in  life,  those  magic  gleams 
always  dazzle  you. 

"Oh!  if  your  father  could  only  succeed!"  said 
Mamma  Delobelle  from  time  to  time,  as  if  to  sum  up 
a  whole  world  of  happy  thoughts  to  which  her  reverie 
abandoned  itself. 

"He  will  succeed,  mamma,  never  fear.  Monsieur 
Risler  is  so  kind,  I  will  answer  for  him.  And  Sidonie 
is  very  fond  of  us,  too,  although  since  she  was  married 
she  does  seem  to  neglect  her  old  friends  a  little.  But 
we  must  make  allowance  for  the  difference  in  our  posi- 
tions. Besides,  I  never  shall  forget  what  she  did  for 
me." 

And,  at  the  thought  of  what  Sidonie  had  done  for  her, 
the  little  cripple  applied  herself  with  even  more  fever- 
ish energy  to  her  work.  Her  electrified  fingers  moved 
with  redoubled  swiftness.  You  would  have  said  that 
they  were  running  after  some  fleeing,  elusive  thing,  like 
happiness,  for  example,  or  the  love  of  some  one  who 
loves  you  not. 

^'What  was  it  that  she  did  for  you?"  her  mother 
["4] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

would  naturally  have  asked  her;  but  at  that  moment 
she  was  only  slightly  interested  in  what  her  daughter 
said.     She  was  thinking  exclusively  of  her  great  man. 

"No!  do  you  think  so,  my  dear?  Just  suppose  your 
father  should  have  a  theatre  of  his  own  and  act  again 
as  in  former  days.  You  don't  remember;  you  were 
too  small  then.  But  he  had  tremendous  success,  no 
end  of  recalls.  One  night,  at  Alenjon,  the  subscribers 
to  the  theatre  gave  him  a  gold  wreath.  Ah!  he  was  a 
brilliant  man  in  those  days,  so  light-hearted,  so  glad  to 
be  alive.  Those  who  see  him  now  don't  know  him, 
poor  man,  misfortune  has  changed  him  so.  Oh,  well! 
I  feel  sure  that  all  that's  necessary  is  a  little  success  to 
make  him  young  and  happy  again.  And  then  there's 
money  to  be  made  managing  theatres.  The  manager 
at  Nantes  had  a  carriage.  Can  you  imagine  us  with  a 
carriage?  Can  you  imagine  it,  I  say?  That's  what 
would  be  good  for  you.  You  could  go  out,  leave  your 
armchair  once  in  a  while.  Your  father  would  take  us 
into  the  country.  You  would  see  the  water  and  the 
trees  you  have  had  such  a  longing  to  see." 

''Oh!  the  trees,"  murmured  the  pale  Httle  recluse, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

At  that  moment  the  street  door  of  the  house  was 
closed  violently,  and  M.  Delobelle's  measured  step 
echoed  in  the  vestibule.  There  was  a  moment  of 
speechless,  breathless  anguish.  The  women  dared  not 
look  at  each  other,  and  mamma's  great  scissors  trem- 
bled so  that  they  cut  the  wire  crooked. 

The  poor  devil  had  unquestionably  received  a  terri- 
ble blow.    His  illusions  crushed,  the  humiliation  of  a 

["51 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

refusal,  the  jests  of  his  comrades,  the  bill  at  the  cafe 
where  he  had  breakfasted  on  credit  during  the  whole 
period  of  his  managership,  a  bill  which  must  be  paid — 
all  these  things  occurred  to  him  in  the  silence  and 
gloom  of  the  five  flights  he  had  to  climb.  His  heart 
was  torn.  Even  so,  the  actor's  nature  was  so  strong  in 
him  that  he  deemed  it  his  duty  to  envelop  his  distress, 
genuine  as  it  was,  in  a  conventional  tragic  mask. 

As  he  entered,  he  paused,  cast  an  ominous  glance 
around  the  work-room,  at  the  table  covered  with  work, 
his  little  supper  waiting  for  him  in  a  comer,  and  the 
two  dear,  anxious  faces  looking  up  at  him  with  glisten- 
ing eyes.  He  stood  a  full  minute  without  speaking — 
and  you  know  how  long  a  minute's  silence  seems  on 
the  stage ;  then  he  took  three  steps  forward,  sank  upon 
a  low  chair  beside  the  table,  and  exclaimed  in  a  hissing 
voice : 

"Ah!  I  am  accursed!" 

At  the  same  time  he  dealt  the  table  such  a  terrible 
blow  with  his  fist  that  the  ''birds  and  insects  for  orna- 
ment "  flew  to  the  four  comers  of  the  room.  His  terri- 
fied wife  rose  and  timidly  approached  him,  while 
Desiree  half  rose  in  her  armchair  with  an  expression  of 
nervous  agony  that  distorted  all  her  features. 

Lolling  in  his  chair,  his  arms  hanging  despondently 
by  his  sides,  his  head  on  his  chest,  the  actor  solilo- 
quized— a  fragmentary  soliloquy,  interrupted  by  sighs 
and  dramatic  hiccoughs,  overflowing  with  impreca- 
tions against  the  pitiless,  selfish  bourgeois,  those  mon- 
sters to  whom  the  artist  gives  his  flesh  and  blood  for 
food  and  drink. 

[ii6] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Then  he  reviewed  his  whole  theatrical  life,  his  early 
triumphs,  the  golden  wreath  from  the  subscribers  at 
Alen^on,  his  marriage  to  this  "sainted  woman,"  and 
he  pointed  to  the  poor  creature  who  stood  by  his  side, 
with  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes,  and  trembling  lips, 
nodding  her  head  dotingly  at  every  word  her  husband 
said. 

In  very  truth,  a  person  who  never  had  heard  of  the 
illustrious  Delobelle  could  have  told  his  history  in 
detail  after  that  long  monologue.  He  recalled  his 
arrival  in  Paris,  his  humiliations,  his  privations.  Alas ! 
he  was  not  the  one  who  had  known  privation.  One 
had  but  to  look  at  his  full,  rotund  face  beside  the  thin, 
drawn  faces  of  the  two  women.  But  the  actor  did  not 
look  so  closely. 

"Oh!"  he  said,  continuing  to  intoxicate  himself  with 
declamatory  phrases,  "oh!  to  have  struggled  so  long. 
For  ten  years,  fifteen  years,  have  I  struggled  on,  sup- 
ported by  these  devoted  creatures,  fed  by  them." 

"Papa,  papa,  hush,"  cried  Desiree,  clasping  her 
hands. 

"Yes,  fed  by  them,  I  say — and  I  do  not  blush  for  it. 
For  I  accept  all  this  devotion  in  the  name  of  sacred  art. 
But  this  is  too  much.  Too  much  has  been  put  upon 
me.    I  renounce  the  stage!" 

"  Oh !  my  dear,  what  is  that  you  say  ?  "  cried  Mamma 
Delobelle,  rushing  to  his  side. 

"No,  leave  me.  I  have  reached  the  end  of  my 
strength.  They  have  slain  the  artist  in  me.  It  is  all 
over.    I  renounce  the  stage." 

If  you  had  seen  the  two  women  throw  their  arms 

[117] 


ALFHO'NSE  DAUDET 

about  him  then,  implore  him  to  struggle  on,  prove  to 
him  that  he  had  no  right  to  give  up,  you  could  not  have 
restrained  your  tears.     But  Delobelle  resisted. 

He  yielded  at  last,  however,  and  promised  to  con- 
tinue the  fight  a  little  while,  since  it  was  their  wish; 
but  it  required  many  an  entreaty  and  caress  to  carry 
the  point. 


[ii8] 


CHAPTER  IX 

AT  SAVIGNY 

;T  was  a  great  misfortune,  that  sojourn 
of  the  two  famines  at  Savigny  for  a 
month. 

After  an  interval  of  two  years 
Georges  and  Sidonie  found  them- 
selves side  by  side  once  more  on  the 
old  estate,  too  old  not  to  be  always 
like  itself,  where  the  stones,  the 
ponds,  the  trees,  always  the  same,  seemed  to  cast  de- 
rision upon  all  that  changes  and  passes  away.  A 
renewal  of  intercourse  under  such  circumstances  must 
have  been  disastrous  to  two  natures  that  were  not  of 
a  very  different  stamp,  and  far  more  virtuous  than 
those  two. 

As  for  Claire,  she  never  had  been  so  happy;  Savigny 
never  had  seemed  so  lovely  to  her.  What  joy  to  walk 
with  her  child  over  the  greensward  where  she  herself 
had  walked  as  a  child ;  to  sit,  a  young  mother,  upon  the 
shaded  seats  from  which  her  own  mother  had  looked 
on  at  her  childish  games  years  before ;  to  go,  leaning  on 
Georges's  arm,  to  seek  out  the  nooks  where  they  had 
played  together.  She  felt  a  tranquil  contentment,  the 
overflowing  happiness  of  placid  lives  which  enjoy  their 

[119] 


ALPHONSE  DALDET 

bliss  in  silence ;  and  all  day  long  her  skirts  swept  along 
the  paths,  guided  by  the  tiny  footsteps  of  the  child,  her 
cries  and  her  demands  upon  her  mother's  care. 

Sidonie  seldom  took  part  in  these  maternal  prom- 
enades. She  said  that  the  chatter  of  children  tired 
her,  and  therein  she  agreed  with  old  Gardinois,  who 
seized  upon  any  pretext  to  annoy  his  granddaughter. 
He  believed  that  he  accomplished  that  object  by  devot- 
ing himself  exclusively  to  Sidonie,  and  arranging  even 
more  entertainments  for  her  than  on  her  former  visit. 
The  carriages  that  had  been  shut  up  in  the  carriage- 
house  for  two  years,  and  were  dusted  once  a  week  be- 
cause the  spiders  spun  their  webs  on  the  silk  cushions, 
were  placed  at  her  disposal.  The  horses  were  har- 
nessed three  times  a  day,  and  the  gate  was  continually 
turning  on  its  hinges.  Everybody  in  the  house  fol- 
lowed this  impulse  of  worldliness.  The  gardener  paid 
more  attention  to  hi^  flowers  because  Madame  Risler 
selected  the  finest  ones  to  wear  in  her  hair  at  dinner. 
And  then  there  were  calls  to  be  made.  Luncheon 
parties  were  given,  gatherings  at  which  Madame  Fro- 
mont  Jeune  presided,  but  at  which  Sidonie,  with  her 
lively  manners,  shone  supreme.  Indeed,  Claire  often 
left  her  a  clear  field.  The  child  had  its  hours  for  sleep- 
ing and  riding  out,  with  which  no  amusements  could 
interfere.  The  mother  was  compelled  to  remain  away, 
and  it  often  happened  that  she  was  unable  to  go  with 
Sidonie  to  meet  the  partners  when  they  came  from 
Paris  at  night. 

"You  will  make  my  excuses,"  she  would  say,  as  the 
went  up  to  her  room. 

[120I 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Madame  Risler  was  triumphant.  A  picture  of  ele- 
gant indolence,  she  would  drive  away  behind  the  gal- 
loping horses,  unconscious  of  the  swiftness  of  their  pace, 
without  a  thought  in  her  mind. 

Other  carriages  were  always  waiting  at  the  station. 
Two  or  three  times  she  heard  some  one  near  her  whis- 
per, "That  is  Madame  Fromont  Jeune,"  and,  indeed, 
it  was  a  simple  matter  for  people  to  make  the  mistake, 
seeing  the  three  return  together  from  the  station, 
Sidonie  sitting  beside  Georges  on  the  back  seat,  laugh- 
ing and  talking  with  him,  and  Risler  facing  them, 
smiling  contentedly  with  his  broad  hands  spread  flat 
upon  his  knees,  but  evidently  feeling  a  little  out  of 
place  in  that  fine  carriage.  The  thought  that  she  was 
taken  for  Madame  Fromont  made  her  very  proud,  and 
she  became  a  little  more  accustomed  to  it  every  day. 
On  their  arrival  at  the  chateau,  the  two  families  separ- 
ated until  dinner;  but,  in  the  presence  of  his  wife  sitting 
tranquilly  beside  the  sleeping  child,  Georges  Fromont, 
too  young  to  be  absorbed  by  the  joys  of  domesticity, 
was  continually  thinking  of  the  brilliant  Sidonie,  whose 
voice  he  could  hear  pouring  forth  triumphant  roulades 
under  the  trees  in  the  garden. 

While  the  whole  chateau  was  thus  transformed  in 
obedience  to  the  whims  of  a  young  woman,  old  Gar- 
dinois  continued  to  lead  the  narrow  life  of  a  discon- 
tented, idle,  impotent  parvenu.  The  most  successful 
means  of  distraction  he  had  discovered  was  espionage. 
The  goings  and  comings  of  his  servants,  the  remarks 
that  were  made  about  him  in  the  kitchen,  the  basket 
of  fruit  and  vegetables  brought  every  morning  from  the 

[121] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

kitchen-garden  to  the  pantry,  were  objects  of  continual 
investigation. 

For  the  purposes  of  this  constant  spying  upon  his 
household,  he  made  use  of  a  stone  bench  set  in  the 
gravel  behind  an  enormous  Paulownia.  He  would  sit 
there  whole  days  at  a  time,  neither  reading  nor  think- 
ing, simply  watching  to  see  who  went  in  or  out.  For 
the  night  he  had  invented  something  different.  In  the 
great  vestibule  at  the  main  entrance,  which  opened 
upon  the  front  steps  with  their  array  of  bright  flowers, 
he  had  caused  an  opening  to  be  made  leading  to 
his  bedroom  on  the  floor  above.  An  acoustic  tube 
of  an  improved  type  was  supposed  to  convey  to 
his  ears  every  sound  on  the  ground  floor,  even  to  the 
conversation  of  the  servants  taking  the  air  on  the 
steps. 

Unluckily,  the  instrument  was  so  powerful  that  it 
exaggerated  all  the  noises,  confused  them  and  prolonged 
them,  and  the  powerful,  regular  ticking  of  a  great  clock, 
the  cries  of  a  paroquet  kept  in  one  of  the  lower  rooms, 
the  clucking  of  a  hen  in  search  of  a  lost  kernel  of  corn, 
were  all  Monsieur  Gardinois  could  hear  when  he  ap- 
plied his  ear  to  the  tube.  As  for  voices,  they  reached 
him  in  the  form  of  a  confused  buzzing,  like  the  mutter- 
ing of  a  crowd,  in  which  it  was  impossible  to  distin- 
guish anything.  He  had  nothing  to  show  for  the  ex- 
pense of  the  apparatus,  and  he  concealed  his  wonderful 
tube  in  a  fold  of  his  bed-curtains. 

One  night  Gardinois,  who  had  fallen  asleep,  was 
awakened  suddenly  by  the  creaking  of  a  door.  It  was 
an  extraordinary  thing  at  that  hour.    The  whole  house- 

[122  J 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

hold  was  asleep.  Nothing  could  be  heard  save  the 
footsteps  of  the  watch-dogs  on  the  sand,  or  their  scratch- 
ing at  the  foot  of  a  tree  in  which  an  owl  was  screeching. 
An  excellent  opportunity  to  use  his  listening- tube! 
Upon  putting  it  to  his  ear,  M.  Gardinois  was  assured 
that  he  had  made  no  mistake.  The  sounds  continued. 
One  door  was  opened,  then  another.  The  bolt  of  the 
front  door  was  thrown  back  with  an  effort.  But  neither 
Pyramus  nor  Thisbe,  not  even  Kiss^  the  formidable 
Newfoundland,  had  made  a  sign.  He  rose  softly  to 
see  who  those  strange  burglars  could  be,  who  were 
leaving  the  house  instead  of  entering  it;  and  this  is 
what  he  saw  through  the  slats  of  his  blind : 

A  tall,  slender  young  man,  with  Georges's  figure  and 
carriage,  arm-in-arm  with  a  woman  in  a  lace  mantilla. 
They  stopped  first  at  the  bench  by  the  Paulownia, 
which  was  in  full  bloom. 

It  was  a  superb  moonlight  night.  The  moon,  silver- 
ing the  tree-tops,  made  numberless  flakes  of  light  amid 
the  dense  foliage.  The  terraces,  white  with  moon- 
beams, where  the  Newfoundlands  in  their  curly  coats 
went  to  and  fro,  watching  the  night  butterflies,  the 
smooth,  deep  waters  of  the  ponds,  all  shone  with  a 
mute,  calm  brilliance,  as  if  reflected  in  a  silver  mirror. 
Here  and  there  glow-worms  twinkled  on  the  edges  of 
the  greensward. 

The  two  promenaders  remained  for  a  moment  be- 
neath the  shade  of  the  Paulownia,  sitting  silent  on  the 
bench,  lost  in  the  dense  darkness  which  the  moon 
makes  where  its  rays  do  not  reach.  Suddenly  they  ap- 
peared in  the  bright  light,  wrapped  in  a  languishing 

[123] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

embrace;  then  walked  slowly  across  the  main  avenue, 
and  disappeared  among  the  trees. 

"I  was  sure  of  it!"  said  old  Gardinois,  recognizing 
them.  Indeed,  what  need  had  he  to  recognize  them? 
Did  not  the  silence  of  the  dogs,  the  aspect  of  the  sleep- 
ing house,  tell  him  more  clearly  than  anything  else 
could,  what  species  of  impudent  crime,  unknown  and 
unpunished,  haunted  the  avenues  in  his  park  by  night? 
Be  that  as  it  may,  the  old  peasant  was  overjoyed  by  his 
discovery.  He  returned  to  bed  without  a  light,  chuck- 
ling to  himself,  and  in  the  little  cabinet  filled  with  hunt- 
ing-implements, whence  he  had  watched  them,  thinking 
at  first  that  he  had  to  do  with  burglars,  the  moon's  rays 
shone  upon  naught  save  the  fowling-pieces  hanging  on 
the  wall  and  the  boxes  of  cartridges  of  all  sizes. 

Sidonie  and  Georges  had  taken  up  the  thread  of  their 
love  at  the  corner  of  the  same  avenue.  The  year  that 
had  passed,  marked  by  hesitation,  by  vague  struggles, 
by  fruitless  resistance,  seemed  to  have  been  only  a  prep- 
aration for  their  meeting.  And  it  must  be  said  that, 
when  once  the  fatal  step  was  taken,  they  were  surprised 
at  nothing  so  much  as  the  fact  that  they  had  postponed 
it  so  long.  Georges  Fromont  especially  was  seized  by 
a  mad  passion.  He  was  false  to  his  wife,  his  best 
friend;  he  was  false  to  Risler,  his  partner,  the  faithful 
companion  of  his  every  hour. 

He  felt  a  constant  renewal,  a  sort  of  overflow  of  re- 
morse, wherein  his  passion  was  intensified  by  the  mag- 
nitude of  his  sin.  Sidonie  became  his  one  engrossing 
thought,  and  he  discovered  that  until  then  he  had  not 
lived.     As  for  her,  her  love  was  made  up  of  vanity  and 

[124] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

spite.  The  thing  that  she  relished  above  all  else  was 
Claire's  degradation  in  her  eyes.  Ah!  if  she  could 
only  have  said  to  her,  "Your  husband  loves  me — he 
is  false  to  you  with  me,"  her  pleasure  would  have  been 
even  greater.  As  for  Risler,  in  her  view  he  richly  de- 
served what  had  happened  to  him.  In  her  old  ap- 
prentice's jargon,  in  which  she  still  thought,  even  if 
she  did  not  speak  it,  the  poor  man  was  only  "an  old 
fool,"  whom  she  had  taken  as  a  stepping-stone  to  fort- 
une.    "An  old  fool"  is  made  to  be  deceived! 

During  the  day  Savigny  belonged  to  Claire,  to  the 
child  who  ran  about  upon  the  gravel,  laughing  at  the 
birds  and  the  clouds,  and  who  grew  apace.  The 
mother  and  child  had  for  their  own  the  daylight,  the 
paths  filled  with  sunbeams.  But  the  blue  nights  were 
given  over  to  sin,  to  that  sin  firmly  installed  in  the 
chateau,  which  spoke  in  undertones,  crept  noiselessly 
behind  the  closed  blinds,  and  in  face  of  which  the  sleep- 
ing house  became  dumb  and  blind,  and  resumed  its 
stony  impassibility,  as  if  it  were  ashamed  to  see  and 
hear. 


[125] 


CHAPTER  X 

SIGISMOND  PLANUS  TREMBLES  FOR  HIS  CASH-BOX 

CARRIAGE,  my  dear  Chorche?— I 
— have  a  carriage ?    What  for?'* 

"1  assure  you,  my  dear  Risler, 
that  it  is  quite  essential  for  you.  Our 
business,  our  relations,  are  extending 
every  day;  the  coupe  is  no  longer 
enough  for  us.  Besides,  it  doesn't 
look  well  to  see  one  of  the  partners 
always  in  his  carriage  and  the  other  on  foot.  Believe 
me,  it  is  a  necessary  outlay,  and  of  course  it  will  go 
into  the  general  expenses  of  the  firm.  Come,  resign 
yourself  to  the  inevitable." 

It  was  genuine  resignation.  It  seemed  to  Risler 
as  if  he  were  stealing  something  in  taking  the  money 
for  such  an  unheard-of  luxury  as  a  carriage ;  however, 
he  ended  by  yielding  to  Georges's  persistent  represen- 
tations, thinking  as  he  did  so : 
"This  will  make  Sidonie  very  happy!" 
The  poor  fellow  had  no  suspicion  that  Sidonie  her- 
self, a  month  before,  had  selected  at  Binder's  the  coupe 
which  Georges  insisted  upon  giving  her,  and  which 
was  to  be  charged  to  expense  account  in  order  not  to 
alarm  the  husband. 

[126] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Honest  Risler  was  so  plainly  created  to  be  deceived. 
His  inborn  uprightness,  the  implicit  confidence  in  men 
and  things,  which  was  the  foundation  of  his  transparent 
nature,  had  been  intensified  of  late  by  preoccupation 
resulting  from  his  pursuit  of  the  Risler  Press,  an  inven- 
tion destined  to  revolutionize  the  wall-paper  industry 
and  representing  in  his  eyes  his  contribution  to  the 
partnership  assets.  When  he  laid  aside  his  drawings 
and  left  his  little  work-room  on  the  first  floor,  his  face 
invariably  wore  the  absorbed  look  of  the  man  who  has 
his  life  on  one  side,  his  anxieties  on  another.  What  a 
delight  it  was  to  him,  therefore,  to  find  his  home  always 
tranquil,  his  wife  always  in  good  humor,  becomingly 
dressed  and  smiling. 

Without  undertaking  to  explain  the  change  to  him- 
self, he  recognized  that  for  some  time  past  the  "little 
one"  had  not  been  as  before  in  her  treatment  of  him. 
She  allowed  him  to  resume  his  old  habits:  the  pipe  at 
dessert,  the  little  nap  after  dinner,  the  appointments 
at  the  brewery  with  Chebe  and  Delobelle.  Their  apart- 
ments also  were  transformed,  embellished. 

A  grand  piano  by  a  famous  maker  made  its  appear- 
ance in  the  salon  in  place  of  the  old  one,  and  Madame 
Dobson,  the  singing-teacher,  came  no  longer  twice  a 
week,  but  every  day,  music-roll  in  hand. 

Of  a  curious  type  was  that  young  woman  of  Ameri- 
can extraction,  with  hair  of  an  acid  blond,  like  lemon- 
pulp,  over  a  bold  forehead  and  metallic  blue  eyes.  As 
her  husband  would  not  allow  her  to  go  on  the  stage,  she 
gave  lessons,  and  sang  in  some  bourgeois  salons.  As 
a  result  of  living  in  the  artificial  world  of  compositions 

[127] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

for  voice  and  piano,  she  had  contracted  a  species  of 
sentimental  frenzy. 

She  was  romance  itself.  In  her  mouth  the  words 
"love"  and  "passion"  seemed  to  have  eighty  syllables, 
she  uttered  them  with  so  much  expression.  Oh,  ex- 
pression !  That  was  what  Mistress  Dobson  placed  be- 
fore everything,  and  what  she  tried,  and  tried  in  vain, 
to  impart  to  her  pupil. 

Ay  Chiquita,  upon  which  Paris  fed  for  several  sea- 
sons, was  then  at  the  height  of  its  popularity.  Sidonie 
studied  it  conscientiously,  and  all  the  morning  she 
could  be  heard  singing: 

"0«  dii  que  tu  te  maries, 
Tu  sais  que  j'en  puis  tnouriry  '  * 

"Mouri-i-i-i-i-r!"  the  expressive  Madame  Dobson 
would  interpose,  while  her  hands  wandered  feebly  over 
the  piano-keys;  and  die  she  would,  raising  her  light  blue 
eyes  to  the  ceiling  and  wildly  throwing  back  her  head. 
Sidonie  never  could  accomplish  it.  Her  mischievous 
eyes,  her  lips,  crimson  with  fulness  of  life,  were  not 
made  for  such  .^olian-harp  sentimentahties.  The  re- 
frains of  Offenbach  or  Herve,  interspersed  with  unex- 
pected notes,  in  which  one  resorts  to  expressive  gestures 
for  aid,  to  a  motion  of  the  head  or  the  body,  would  have 
suited  her  better;  but  she  dared  not  admit  it  to  her 
sentimental  instructress.  By  the  way,  although  she 
had  been  made  to  sing  a  great  deal  at  Mademoiselle  Le 
Mire's,  her  voice  was  still  fresh  and  not  unpleasing. 

♦They  say  that  thou'rt  to  marry 

Thou  know'st  that  I  may  die. 

[128] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Having  no  social  connections,  she  came  gradually  to 
make  a  friend  of  her  singing-mistress.  She  would  keep 
her  to  breakfast,  take  her  to  drive  in  the  new  coupe 
and  to  assist  in  her  purchases  of  gowns  and  jewels. 
Madame  Dobson's  sentimental  and  sympathetic  tone 
led  one  to  repose  confidence  in  her.  Her  continual 
repinings  seemed  too  long  to  attract  other  repinings. 
Sidonie  told  her  of  Georges,  of  their  relations,  attempt- 
ing to  palliate  her  oflFence  by  blaming  the  cruelty  of  her 
parents  in  marrying  her  by  force  to  a  man  much  older 
than  herself.  Madame  Dobson  at  once  showed  a  dis- 
position to  assist  them;  not  that  the  little  woman  was 
venal,  but  she  had  a  passion  for  passion,  a  taste  for  ro- 
mantic intrigue.  As  she  was  unhappy  in  her  own  home, 
married  to  a  dentist  who  beat  her,  all  husbands  were 
monsters  in  her  eyes,  and  poor  Risler  especially  seemed 
to  her  a  horrible  tyrant  whom  his  wife  was  quite  justi- 
fied in  hating  and  deceiving. 

She  was  an  active  confidant  and  a  very  useful  one. 
Two  or  three  times  a  week  she  would  bring  tickets  for 
a  box  at  the  Opera  or  the  Italiens,  or  some  one  of  the 
little  theatres  which  enjoy  a  temporary  vogue,  and 
cause  all  Paris  to  go  from  one  end  of  Paris  to  the  other 
for  a  season.  In  Risler' s  eyes  the  tickets  came  from 
Madame  Dobson;  she  had  as  many  as  she  chose  to 
the  theatres  where  operas  were  given.  The  poor 
wretch  had  no  suspicion  that  one  of  those  boxes  for  an 
important  "first  night"  had  often  cost  his  partner  ten 
or  fifteen  louis. 

In  the  evening,  when  his  wife  went  away,  always 
splendidly  attired,  he  would  gaze  admiringly  at  her, 
9  [129] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

having  no  suspicion  of  the  cost  of  her  costumes,  cer- 
tainly none  of  the  man  who  paid  for  them,  and  would 
await  her  return  at  his  table  by  the  fire,  busy  with  his 
drawings,  free  from  care,  and  happy  to  be  able  to  say 
to  himself,  "What  a  good  time  she  is  having!" 

On  the  floor  below,  at  the  Fromonts',  the  same 
comedy  was  being  played,  but  with  a  transposition  of 
parts.  There  it  was  the  young  wife  who  sat  by  the  fire. 
Every  evening,  half  an  hour  after  Sidonie's  departure, 
the  great  gate  swung  open  to  give  passage  to  the  Fro- 
mont  coupe  conveying  Monsieur  to  his  club.  What 
would  you  have  ?  Business  has  its  demands.  All  the 
great  deals  are  arranged  at  the  club,  around  the  bouil- 
lotte  table,  and  a  man  must  go  there  or  suffer  the  penalty 
of  seeing  his  business  fall  off.  Claire  innocently  be- 
lieved it  all.  When  her  husband  had  gone,  she  felt 
sad  for  a  moment.  She  would  have  liked  so  much  to 
keep  him  with  her  or  to  go  out  leaning  on  his  arm,  to 
seek  enjoyment  with  him.  But  the  sight  of  the  child, 
cooing  in  front  of  the  fire  and  kicking  her  little  pink 
feet  while  she  was  being  undressed,  speedily  soothed 
the  mother.  Then  the  eloquent  word  ''business,"  the 
merchant's  reason  of  state,  was  always  at  hand  to  help 
her  to  resign  herself. 

Georges  and  Sidonie  met  at  the  theatre.  Their  feel- 
ing at  first  when  they  were  together  was  one  of  satisfied 
vanity.  People  stared  at  them  a  great  deal.  She  was 
really  pretty  now,  and  her  irregular  but  attractive  feat- 
ures, which  required  the  aid  of  all  the  eccentricities  of 
the  prevailing  style  in  order  to  produce  their  full  effect, 
adapted  themselves  to  them  so  perfectly  that  you  would 

[130] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

have  said  they  were  invented  expressly  for  her.  In  a 
few  moments  they  went  away,  and  Madame  Dobson 
was  left  alone  in  the  box.  They  had  hired  a  small 
suite  on  the  Avenue  Gabriel,  near  the  r mid- point  of  the 
Champs  Elysees — the  dream  of  the  young  women  at 
the  Le  Mire  establishment — two  luxuriously  furnished, 
quiet  rooms,  where  the  silence  of  the  wealthy  quarter, 
disturbed  only  by  passing  carriages,  formed  a  blissful 
surrounding  for  their  love. 

Little  by  little,  when  she  had  become  accustomed  to 
her  sin,  she  conceived  the  most  audacious  whims. 
From  her  old  working-days  she  had  retained  in  the 
depths  of  her  memory  the  names  of  public  balls,  of 
famous  restaurants,  where  she  was  eager  to  go  now, 
just  as  she  took  pleasure  in  causing  the  doors  to  be 
thrown  open  for  her  at  the  estabHshments  of  the  great 
dressmakers,  whose  signs  only  she  had  known  in  her 
earlier  days.  For  what  she  sought  above  all  else  in 
this  liaison  was  revenge  for  the  sorrows  and  humilia- 
tions of  her  youth.  Nothing  delighted  her  so  much, 
for  example,  when  returning  from  an  evening  drive  in 
the  Bois,  as  a  supper  at  the  Cafe  Anglais  with  the 
sounds  of  luxurious  vice  around  her.  From  these 
repeated  excursions  she  brought  back  peculiarities 
of  speech  and  behavior,  equivocal  songs,  and  a  style 
of  dress  that  imported  into  the  bourgeois  atmosphere  of 
the  old  commercial  house  an  accurate  reproduction  of 
the  most  advanced  type  of  the  Paris  cocotte  of  that 
period. 

At  the  factory  they  began  to  suspect  something. 
The  women  of  the  people,  even  the  poorest,  are  so 

[131] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

quick  at  picking  a  costume  to  pieces!  When  Madame 
Risler  went  out,  about  three  o'clock,  fifty  pairs  of 
sharp,  envious  eyes,  lying  in  ambush  at  the  windows 
of  the  polishing-shop,  watched  her  pass,  penetrating  to 
the  lowest  depths  of  her  guilty  conscience  through  her 
black  velvet  dolman  and  her  cuirass  of  sparkling  jet. 

Although  she  did  not  suspect  it,  all  the  secrets  of 
that  mad  brain  were  flying  about  her  like  the  ribbons 
that  played  upon  her  bare  neck;  and  her  daintily-shod 
feet,  in  their  bronzed  boots  with  ten  buttons,  told  the 
story  of  all  sorts  of  clandestine  expeditions,  of  the 
carpeted  stairways  they  ascended  at  night  on  their 
way  to  supper,  and  the  warm  fur  robes  in  which  they 
were  wrapped  when  the  coupe  made  the  circuit  of  the 
lake  in  the  darkness  dotted  with  lanterns. 

The  workwomen  laughed  sneeringly  and  whispered : 
"Just  look  at  that  Tata  Bebelle!  A  fine  way  to  dress 
to  go  out.  She  don't  rig  herself  up  like  that  to  go  to 
mass,  that's  sure!  To  think  that  it  ain't  three  years 
since  she  used  to  start  for  the  shop  every  morning  in 
an  old  waterproof,  and  two  sous'  worth  of  roasted 
chestnuts  in  her  pockets  to  keep  her  fingers  warm. 
Now  she  rides  in  her  carriage." 

And  amid  the  talc  dust  and  the  roaring  of  the  stoves, 
red-hot  in  winter  and  summer  ahke,  more  than  one 
poor  girl  reflected  on  the  caprice  of  chance  in  absolutely 
transforming  a  woman's  existence,  and  began  to  dream 
vaguely  of  a  magnificent  future  which  might  perhaps 
be  in  store  for  herself  without  her  suspecting  it. 

In  everybody's  opinion  Risler  was  a  dishonored  hus- 
band.   Two  assistants  in  the  printing-room — faithful 


NUhing  delighted  her  more  than  a  supper  at 
the  Caf6  Anglais. 

(See  page  I3U 
[From  the  Original  Drawing  by  P.   A.   Roax.} 


v.\t\  »«»^  »9^> 


I 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

patrons  of  the  Folies  Dramatiques — declared  that  they 
had  seen  Madame  Risler  several  times  at  their  theatre, 
accompanied  by  some  escort  who  kept  out  of  sight  at 
the  rear  of  the  box.  Pere  Achille,  too,  told  of  amazing 
things.  That  Sidonie  had  a  lover,  that  she  had  several 
lovers,  in  fact,  no  one  entertained  a  doubt.  But  no 
one  had  as  yet  thought  of  Fromont  Jeune. 

And  yet  she  showed  no  prudence  whatever  in  her 
relations  with  him.  On  the  contrary,  she  seemed  to 
make  a  parade  of  them;  it  may  be  that  that  was  what 
saved  them.  How  many  times  she  accosted  him  boldly 
on  the  steps  to  agree  upon  a  rendezvous  for  the  even- 
ing! How  many  times  she  had  amused  herself  in 
making  him  shudder  by  looking  into  his  eyes  before 
every  one!  When  the  first  confusion  had  passed, 
Georges  was  grateful  to  her  for  these  exhibitions  of 
audacity,  which  he  attributed  to  the  intensity  of  her 
passion.    He  was  mistaken. 

What  she  would  have  liked,  although  she  did  not 
admit  it  to  herself,  would  have  been  to  have  Claire  see 
them,  to  have  her  draw  aside  the  curtain  at  her  window, 
to  have  her  conceive  a  suspicion  of  what  was  passing. 
She  needed  that  in  order  to  be  perfectly  happy:  that 
her  rival  should  be  unhappy.  But  her  wish  was  un- 
gratified;  Claire  Fromont  noticed  nothing  and  lived, 
as  did  Risler,  in  imperturbable  serenity. 

Only  Sigismond,  the  old  cashier,  was  really  ill  at 
ease.  And  yet  he  was  not  thinking  of  Sidonie  when, 
with  his  pen  behind  his  ear,  he  paused  a  moment  in 
his  work  and  gazed  fixedly  through  his  grating  at  the 
drenched  soil  of  the  little  garden.    He  was  thinking 

[133] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

solely  of  his  master,  of  Monsieur  "Chorche,"  who  was 
drawing  a  great  deal  of  money  now  for  his  current 
expenses  and  sowing  confusion  in  all  his  books.  Every 
time  it  was  some  new  excuse.  He  would  come  to  the 
little  wicket  with  an  unconcerned  air: 

"Have  you  a  little  money,  my  good  Planus?  I  was 
worsted  again  at  houillotte  last  night,  and  I  don't  want 
to  send  to  the  bank  for  such  a  trifle." 

Sigismond  Planus  would  open  his  cash-box,  with  an 
air  of  regret,  to  get  the  sum  requested,  and  he  would 
remember  with  terror  a  certain  day  when  Monsieur 
Georges,  then  only  twenty  years  old,  had  confessed  to 
his  uncle  that  he  owed  several  thousand  francs  in 
gambling  debts.  The  elder  man  thereupon  conceived 
a  violent  antipathy  for  the  club  and  contempt  for  all 
its  members.  A  rich  tradesman  who  was  a  member 
happened  to  come  to  the  factory  one  day,  and  Sigis- 
mond said  to  him  with  brutal  frankness: 

"The  devil  take  your  Cercle  du  Chateau  d'Eau! 
Monsieur  Georges  has  left  more  than  thirty  thousand 
francs  there  in  two  months." 

The  other  began  to  laugh. 

"Why,  you're  greatly  mistaken,  Pere  Planus — it's  at 
least  three  months  since  we  have  seen  your  master." 

The  cashier  did  not  pursue  the  conversation;  but  a 
terrible  thought  took  up  its  abode  in  his  mind,  and  he 
turned  it  over  and  over  all  day  long. 

If  Georges  did  not  go  to  the  club,  where  did  he  pass 
his  evenings?    Where  did  he  spend  so  much  money? 

There  was  evidently  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  the 
affair. 

[134] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

As  soon  as  that  idea  occurred  to  him,  Sigismond 
Planus  began  to  tremble  seriously  for  his  cash-box. 
That  old  bear  from  the  canton  of  Berne,  a  confirmed 
bachelor,  had  a  terrible  dread  of  women  in  general 
and  Parisian  women  in  particular.  He  deemed  it  his 
duty,  first  of  all,  in  order  to  set  his  conscience  at  rest, 
to  warn  Risler.  He  did  it  at  first  in  rather  a  vague 
way. 

"Monsieur  Georges  is  spending  a  great  deal  of 
money,"  he  said  to  him  one  day. 

Risler  exhibited  no  surprise. 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do,  my  old  Sigismond? 
It  is  his  right." 

And  the  honest  fellow  meant  what  he  said.  In  his 
eyes  Fromont  Jeune  was  the  absolute  master  of  the 
establishment.  It  would  have  been  a  fine  thing,  and 
no  mistake,  for  him,  an  ex-draughtsman,  to  venture  to 
make  any  comments.  The  cashier  dared  say  no  more 
until  the  day  when  a  messenger  came  from  a  great 
shawl-house  with  a  bill  for  six  thousand  francs  for  a 
cashmere  shawl. 

He  went  to  Georges  in  his  office. 

"Shall  I  pay  it.  Monsieur?" 

Georges  Fromont  was  a  little  annoyed.  Sidonie  had 
forgotten  to  tell  him  of  this  latest  purchase;  she  used 
no  ceremony  with  him  now. 

"Pay  it,  pay  it,  Pere  Planus,"  he  said,  with  a  shade 
of  embarrassment,  and  added:  "Charge  it  to  the  ac- 
count of  Fromont  Jeune.  It  is  a  commission  intrusted 
to  me  by  a  friend." 

That  evening,  as  Sigismond  was  lighting  his  little 

[135] 


ALPHONSE  DAIJDET 

lamp,  he  saw  Risler  crossing  the  garden,  and  tapped 
on  the  window  to  call  him. 

"It's  a  woman,"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "I  have 
the  proof  of  it  now." 

As  he  uttered  the  awful  words  "a  woman  "  his  voice 
shook  with  alarm  and  was  drowned  in  the  great  uproar 
of  the  factory.  The  sounds  of  the  work  in  progress 
had  a  sinister  meaning  to  the  unhappy  cashier  at  that 
moment.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  all  the  whirring 
machinery,  the  great  chimney  pouring  forth  its  clouds 
of  smoke,  the  noise  of  the  workmen  at  their  different 
tasks — as  if  all  this  tumult  and  bustle  and  fatigue  were 
for  the  benefit  of  a  mysterious  little  being,  dressed  in 
velvet  and  adorned  with  jewels. 

Risler  laughed  at  him  and  refused  to  believe  him. 
He  had  long  been  acquainted  with  his  compatriot's 
mania  for  detecting  in  everything  the  pernicious  influ- 
ence of  woman.  And  yet  Planus's  words  sometimes 
recurred  to  his  thoughts,  especially  in  the  evening 
when  Sidonie,  after  all  the  commotion  attendant  upon 
the  completion  of  her  toilette,  went  away  to  the  theatre 
with  Madame  Dobson,  leaving  the  apartment  empty  as 
soon  as  her  long  train  had  swept  across  the  threshold. 
Candles  burning  in  front  of  the  mirrors,  divers  little 
toilette  articles  scattered  about  and  thrown  aside,  told 
of  extravagant  caprices  and  a  reckless  expenditure  of 
money.  Risler  thought  nothing  of  all  that;  but,  when 
he  heard  Georges's  carriage  rolling  through  the  court- 
yard, he  had  a  feeling  of  discomfort  at  the  thought  of 
Madame  Fromont  passing  her  evenings  entirely  alone. 
Poor  woman!    Suppose  what  Planus  said  were  true! 

[136] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Suppose  Georges  really  had  a  second  establishment! 
Oh,  it  would  be  frightful ! 

Thereupon,  instead  of  beginning  to  work,  he  would 
go  softly  downstairs  and  ask  if  Madame  were  visible, 
deeming  it  his  duty  to  keep  her  company. 

The  little  girl  was  always  in  bed,  but  the  little  cap, 
the  blue  shoes,  were  still  lying  in  front  of  the  fire.  Claire 
was  either  reading  or  working,  with  her  silent  mother 
beside  her,  always  rubbing  or  dusting  with  feverish 
energy,  exhausting  herself  by  blowing  on  the  case  of 
her  watch,  and  nervously  taking  the  same  thing  up  and 
putting  it  down  again  ten  times  in  succession,  with  the 
obstinate  persistence  of  mania.  Nor  was  honest  Risler 
a  very  entertaining  companion;  but  that  did  not  pre- 
vent the  young  woman  from  welcoming  him  kindly. 
She  knew  all  that  was  said  about  Sidonie  in  the  factory; 
and  although  she  did  not  believe  half  of  it,  the  sight  of 
the  poor  man,  whom  his  wife  left  alone  so  often,  mov- 
ed her  heart  to  pity.  Mutual  compassion  formed  the 
basis  of  that  placid  friendship,  and  nothing  could  be 
more  touching  than  these  two  deserted  ones,  one  pity- 
ing the  other  and  each  trying  to  divert  the  other's 
thoughts. 

Seated  at  the  small,  brightly  lighted  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  salon,  Risler  would  gradually  yield  to  the 
influence  of  the  warmth  of  the  fire  and  the  harmony  of 
his  surroundings.  He  found  there  articles  of  furniture 
with  which  he  had  been  familiar  for  twenty  years,  the 
portrait  of  his  former  employer ;  and  his  dear  Madame 
Chorche,  bending  over  some  little  piece  of  needle- 
work at  his  side,  seemed  to  him  even  younger  and  more 

[137] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

lovable  among  all  those  old  souvenirs.  From  time  to 
time  she  would  rise  to  go  and  look  at  the  child  sleeping 
in  the  adjoining  room,  whose  soft  breathing  they  could 
hear  in  the  intervals  of  silence.  Without  fully  realiz- 
ing it,  Risler  felt  more  comfortable  and  warmer  there 
than  in  his  own  apartment;  for  on  certain  days  those 
attractive  rooms,  where  the  doors  were  forever  being 
thrown  open  for  hurried  exits  or  returns,  gave  him 
the  impression  of  a  hall  without  doors  or  windows, 
open  to  the  four  winds.  His  rooms  were  a  camping- 
ground  ;  this  was  a  home.  A  care-taking  hand  caused 
order  and  refinement  to  reign  everjrwhere.  The  chairs 
seemed  to  be  talking  together  in  undertones,  the  fire 
burned  with  a  delightful  sound,  and  Mademoiselle  Fro- 
mont's  little  cap  retained  in  every  bow  of  its  blue  rib- 
bons suggestions  of  sweet  smiles  and  baby  glances. 

And  while  Claire  was  thinking  that  such  an  excellent 
man  deserved  a  better  companion  in  life,  Risler,  watch- 
ing the  calm  and  lovely  face  turned  toward  him,  the 
intelligent,  kindly  eyes,  asked  himself  who  the  hussy 
could  be  for  whom  Georges  Fromont  neglected  such 
an  adorable  woman. 


[138] 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  INVENTORY 

'he  house  in  which  old  Planus  liv- 
ed at  Montrouge  adjoined  the  one 
which  the  Chebes  had  occupied  for 
some  time.  There  was  the  same 
ground  floor  with  three  windows, 
and  a  single  floor  above,  the  same 
garden  with  its  lattice-work  fence, 
the  same  borders  of  green  box. 
There  the  old  cashier  lived  with  his  sister.  He  took 
the  first  omnibus  that  left  the  office  in  the  morning, 
returned  at  dinner-time,  and  on  Sundays  remained  at 
home,  tending  his  flowers  and  his  poultry.  The  old 
maid  was  his  housekeeper  and  did  all  the  cooking  and 
sewing.     A  happier  couple  never  lived. 

Celibates  both,  they  were  bound  together  by  an 
equal  hatred  of  marriage.  The  sister  abhorred  all 
men,  the  brother  looked  upon  all  women  with  sus- 
picion; but  they  adored  each  other,  each  considering 
the  other  an  exception  to  the  general  perversity  of  the 
sex. 

In  speaking  of  him  she  always  said:  "Monsieur 
Planus,  my  brother!" — and  he,  with  the  same  affec- 
tionate solemnity,  interspersed  all  his  sentences  with 
"Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister!"    To  those  two  re- 

[139] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

tiring  and  innocent  creatures,  Paris,  of  which  they 
knew  nothing,  although  they  visited  it  every  day,  was 
a  den  of  monsters  of  two  varieties,  bent  upon  doing 
one  another  the  utmost  possible  injury;  and  when- 
ever, amid  the  gossip  of  the  quarter,  a  conjugal  drama 
came  to  their  ears,  each  of  them,  beset  by  his  or  her 
own  idea,  blamed  a  different  culprit. 

"It  is  the  husband's  fault,"  would  be  the  verdict  of 
"Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister." 

"It  is  the  wife's  fault,"  "Monsieur  Planus,  my 
brother,"  would  reply. 

"Oh!  the  men " 

"Oh!  the  women " 


That  was  their  one  never-failing  subject  of  discus- 
sion in  those  rare  hours  of  idleness  which  old  Sigis- 
mond  set  aside  in  his  busy  day,  which  was  as  carefully 
ruled  off  as  his  account-books.  For  some  time  past 
the  discussions  between  the  brother  and  sister  had 
been  marked  by  extraordinary  animation.  They  were 
deeply  interested  in  what  was  taking  place  at  the  fac- 
tory. The  sister  was  full  of  pity  for  Madame  Fromont 
and  considered  her  husband's  conduct  altogether  out- 
rageous; as  for  Sigismond,  he  could  find  no  words 
bitter  enough  for  the  unknown  trollop  who  sent  bills 
for  six-thousand-franc  shawls  to  be  paid  from  his  cash- 
box.  In  his  eyes,  the  honor  and  fair  fame  of  the  old 
house  he  had  served  since  his  youth  were  at  stake. 

"What  will  become  of  us?"  he  repeated  again  and 
again.    "Oh!  these  women " 

One  day  Mademoiselle  Planus  sat  by  the  fire  with 
her  knitting,  waiting  for  her  brother. 

[140] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

The  table  had  been  laid  for  half  an  hour,  and  the  old 
lady  was  beginning  to  be  worried  by  such  unheard-of 
tardiness,  when  Sigismond  entered  with  a  most  dis- 
tressed face,  and  without  a  word,  which  was  contrary 
to  all  his  habits. 

He  waited  until  the  door  was  shut  tight,  then  said 
in  a  low  voice,  in  response  to  his  sister's  disturbed  and 
questioning  expression: 

"I  have  some  news.  I  know  who  the  woman  is  who 
is  doing  her  best  to  ruin  us." 

Lowering  his  voice  still  more,  after  glancing  about 
at  the  silent  walls  of  their  little  dining-room,  he  uttered 
a  name  so  unexpected  that  Mademoiselle  Planus  made 
him  repeat  it. 

"Is  it  possible?" 

"It  is  the  truth." 

And,  despite  his  grief,  he  had  almost  a  triumphant  air. 

His  old  sister  could  not  believe  it.  Such  a  refined, 
polite  person,  who  had  received  her  with  so  much  cor- 
diality!— How  could  any  one  imagine  such  a  thing? 

"I  have  proofs,"  said  Sigismond  Planus. 

Thereupon  he  told  her  how  Pere  Achille  had  met 
Sidonie  and  Georges  one  night  at  eleven  o'clock,  just 
as  they  entered  a  small  furnished  lodging-house  in  the 
Montmartre  quarter;  and  he  was  a  man  who  never 
lied.  They  had  known  him  for  a  long  while.  Be- 
sides, others  had  met  them.  Nothing  else  was  talked 
about  at  the  factory.     Risler  alone  suspected  nothing. 

"But  it  is  your  duty  to  tell  him,"  declared  Mademoi- 
selle Planus. 

The  cashier's  face  assumed  a  grave  expression. 
[141] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"It  is  a  very  delicate  matter.  In  the  first  place,  who 
knows  whether  he  would  believe  me  ?  There  are  blind 
men  so  blind  that —  And  then,  by  interfering  between 
the  two  partners,  I  risk  the  loss  of  my  place.  Oh!  the 
women — the  women !  When  I  think  how  happy  Risler 
might  have  been.  When  I  sent  for  him  to  come  to 
Paris  with  his  brother,  he  hadn't  a  sou ;  and  to-day  he 
is  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  first  houses  in  Paris.  Do 
you  suppose  that  he  would  be  content  with  that  ?  Oh ! 
no,  of  course  not!  Monsieur  must  marry.  As  if  any 
one  needed  to  marry!  And,  worse  yet,  he  marries  a 
Parisian  woman,  one  of  those  frowsy-haired  chits  that 
are  the  ruin  of  an  honest  house,  when  he  had  at  his 
hand  a  fine  girl,  of  almost  his  own  age,  a  countrywom- 
an, used  to  work,  and  well  put  together,  as  you  might 
say!" 

"Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister,"  to  whose  physi- 
cal structure  he  alluded,  had  a  magnificent  opportunity 
to  exclaim,  "Oh!  the  men,  the  men!"  but  she  was 
silent.  It  was  a  very  delicate  question,  and  perhaps, 
if  Risler  had  chosen  in  time,  he  might  have  been  the 
only  one. 

Old  Sigismond  continued: 

"And  this  is  what  we  have  come  to.  For  three 
months  the  leading  wall-paper  factory  in  Paris  has 
been  tied  to  the  petticoats  of  that  good-for-nothing. 
You  should  see  how  the  money  flies.  All  day  long  I 
do  nothing  but  open  my  wicket  to  meet  Monsieur 
Georges's  calls.  He  always  applies  to  me,  because  at 
his  banker's  too  much  notice  would  be  taken  of  it, 
whereas  in  our  ofl5ce  money  comes  and  goes,  comes  in 

[142  J 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

and  goes  out.  But  look  out  for  the  inventory!  We 
shall  have  some  pretty  figures  to  show  at  the  end  of 
the  year.  The  worst  part  of  the  whole  business  is  that 
Risler  won't  listen  to  anything.  I  have  warned  him 
several  times :  *  Look  out,  Monsieur  Georges  is  making 
a  fool  of  himself  for  some  woman.'  He  either  turns 
away  with  a  shrug,  or  else  he  tells  me  that  it  is  none  of 
his  business  and  that  Fromont  Jeune  is  the  master. 
Upon  my  word,  one  would  almost  think — one  would 
almost  think " 

The  cashier  did  not  finish  his  sentence;  but  his 
silence  was  pregnant  with  unspoken  thoughts. 

The  old  maid  was  appalled;  but,  like  most  women 
under  such  circumstances,  instead  of  seeking  a  remedy 
for  the  evil,  she  wandered  off  into  a  maze  of  regrets, 
conjectures,  and  retrospective  lamentations.  What  a 
misfortune  that  they  had  not  known  it  sooner  when 
they  had  the  Chebes  for  neighbors.  Madame  Chebe 
was  such  an  honorable  woman.  They  might  have  put 
the  matter  before  her  so  that  she  would  keep  an  eye 
on  Sidonie  and  talk  seriously  to  her. 

"Indeed,  that's  a  good  idea,"  Sigismond  interrupted. 
"You  must  go  to  the  Rue  du  Mail  and  tell  her  parents. 
I  thought  at  first  of  writing  to  little  Frantz.  He  always 
had  a  great  deal  of  influence  over  his  brother,  and  he's 
the  only  person  on  earth  who  could  say  certain  things 
to  him.  But  Frantz  is  so  far  away.  And  then  it 
would  be  such  a  terrible  thing  to  do.  I  can't  help  pity- 
ing that  unlucky  Risler,  though.  No!  the  best  way  is 
to  tell  Madame  Chebe.  Will  you  undertake  to  do  it, 
sister?" 

[143] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

It  was  a  dangerous  commission.  Mademoiselle  Pla- 
nus made  some  objections,  but  she  never  had  been 
able  to  resist  her  brother's  wishes,  and  the  desire  to  be 
of  service  to  their  old  friend  Risler  assisted  materially 
in  persuading  her. 

Thanks  to  his  son-in-law's  kindness,  M.  Chebe  had 
succeeded  in  gratifying  his  latest  whim.  For  three 
months  past  he  had  been  living  at  his  famous  ware- 
house on  the  Rue  du  Mail,  and  a  great  sensation  was 
created  in  the  quarter  by  that  shop  without  merchan- 
dise, the  shutters  of  which  were  taken  down  in  the 
morning  and  put  up  again  at  night,  as  in  wholesale 
houses.  Shelves  had  been  placed  all  around  the  walls, 
there  was  a  new  counter,  a  safe,  a  huge  pair  of  scales. 
In  a  word,  M.  Ch^be  possessed  all  the  requisites  of  a 
business  of  some  sort,  but  did  not  know  as  yet  just 
what  business  he  would  choose. 

He  pondered  the  subject  all  day  as  he  walked  to  and 
fro  across  the  shop,  encumbered  with  several  large 
pieces  of  bedroom  furniture  which  they  had  been  una- 
ble to  get  into  the  back  room;  he  pondered  it,  too,  as 
he  stood  on  his  doorstep,  with  his  pen  behind  his  ear, 
and  feasted  his  eyes  delightedly  on  the  hurly-burly  of 
Parisian  commerce.  The  clerks  who  passed  with  their 
packages  of  samples  under  their  arms,  the  vans  of  the 
express  companies,  the  omnibuses,  the  porters,  the 
wheelbarrows,  the  great  bales  of  merchandise  at  the 
neighboring  doors,  the  packages  of  rich  stuffs  and 
trimmings  which  were  dragged  in  the  mud  before  be- 
ing consigned  to  those  underground  regions,  those  dark 

[144] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

holes  stuffed  with  treasures,  where  the  fortune  of  busi- 
ness lies  in  embryo — all  these  things  delighted  M. 
Chebe. 

He  amused  himself  guessing  at  the  contents  of  the 
bales  and  was  first  at  the  fray  when  some  passer-by 
received  a  heavy  package  upon  his  feet,  or  the  horses 
attached  to  a  dray,  spirited  and  restive,  made  the  long 
vehicle  standing  across  the  street  an  obstacle  to  circu- 
lation. He  had,  moreover,  the  thousand-and-one  dis- 
tractions of  the  petty  tradesman  without  customers, 
the  heavy  showers,  the  accidents,  the  thefts,  the  dis- 
putes. 

At  the  end  of  the  day  M.  Chebe,  dazed,  bewildered, 
worn  out  by  the  labor  of  other  people,  would  stretch 
himself  out  in  his  easy-chair  and  say  to  his  wife,  as  he 
wiped  his  forehead: 

"That's  the  kind  of  life  I  need — an  active  life." 

Madame  Chebe  would  smile  softly  without  replying. 
Accustomed  as  she  was  to  all  her  husband's  whims, 
she  had  made  herself  as  comfortable  as  possible  in  a 
back  room  with  an  outlook  upon  a  dark  yard,  consol- 
ing herself  with  reflections  on  the  former  prosperity 
of  her  parents  and  her  daughter's  wealth;  and,  being 
always  neatly  dressed,  she  had  succeeded  already  in 
acquiring  the  respect  of  neighbors  and  tradesmen. 

She  asked  nothing  more  than  not  to  be  confounded 
with  the  wives  of  workingmen,  often  less  poor  than 
herself,  and  to  be  allowed  to  retain,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, a  petty  bourgeois  superiority.  That  was  her  con- 
stant thought;  and  so  the  back  room  in  which  she 
lived,  and  where  it  was  dark  at  three  in  the  afternoon, 
I?  [  145  ] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

was  resplendent  with  order  and  cleanliness,  during 
the  day  the  bed  became  a  couch,  an  old  shawl  did  duty 
as  a  tablecloth,  the  fireplace,  hidden  by  a  screen, 
served  as  a  pantry,  and  the  meals  were  cooked  in  modest 
retirement  on  a  stove  no  larger  than  a  foot-warmer. 
A  tranquil  life — that  was  the  dream  of  the  poor  woman, 
who  was  continually  tormented  by  the  whims  of  an 
uncongenial  companion. 

In  the  early  days  of  his  tenancy,  M.  Chebe  had 
caused  these  words  to  be  inscribed  in  letters  a  foot  long 
on  the  fresh  paint  of  his  shop-front : 

COMMISSION— EXPORTATION 

No  specifications.  His  neighbors  sold  tulle,  broad- 
cloth, linen;  he  was  inclined  to  sell  everything,  but 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  just  what.  With  what 
arguments  did  his  indecision  lead  him  to  favor  Madame 
Chebe  as  they  sat  together  in  the  evening! 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  linen;  but  when  you 
come  to  broadcloth,  I  understand  that.  Only,  if  I  go 
into  broadcloths  I  must  have  a  man  to  travel;  for  the 
best  kinds  come  from  Sedan  and  Elbeuf .  I  say  nothing 
about  calicoes;  summer  is  the  time  for  them.  As  for 
tulle,  that's  out  of  the  question;  the  season  is  too  far 
advanced." 

He  usually  brought  his  discourse  to  a  close  with  the 
words : 

"The  night  will  bring  counsel — let  us  go  to  bed." 

And  to  bed  he  would  go,  to  his  wife's  great  relief. 
[146] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

After  three  or  four  months  of  this  life,  M.  Chebe 
began  to  tire  of  it.  The  pains  in  the  head,  the  dizzy 
fits  gradually  returned.  The  quarter  was  noisy  and 
unhealthy :  besides,  business  was  at  a  standstill.  Noth- 
ing was  to  be  done  in  any  line,  broadcloths,  tissues,  or 
anything  else. 

It  was  just  at  the  period  of  this  new  crisis  that 
"Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister,"  called  to  speak 
about  Sidonie. 

The  old  maid  had  said  to  herself  on  the  way,  "I 
must  break  it  gently."  But,  like  all  shy  people,  she 
relieved  herself  of  her  burden  in  the  first  words  she 
spoke  after  entering  the  house. 

It  was  a  stunning  blow.  When  she  heard  the  accu- 
sation made  against  her  daughter,  Madame  Chebe 
rose  in  indignation.  No  one  could  ever  make  her  be- 
lieve such  a  thing.  Her  poor  Sidonie  was  the  victim 
of  an  infamous  slander. 

M.  Chebe,  for  his  part,  adopted  a  very  lofty  tone, 
with  significant  phrases  and  motions  of  the  head,  tak- 
ing everything  to  himself  as  was  his  custom.  How 
could  any  one  suppose  that  his  child,  a  Chebe,  the 
daughter  of  an  honorable  business  man  known  for 
thirty  years  on  the  street,  was  capable  of Non- 
sense! 

Mademoiselle  Planus  insisted.  It  was  a  painful 
thing  to  her  to  be  considered  a  gossip,  a  hawker  of 
unsavory  stories.  But  they  had  incontestable  proofs. 
It  was  no  longer  a  secret  to  anybody. 

"And  even  suppose  it  were  true,"  cried  M.  Chebe, 
furious  at  her  persistence.     "  Is  it  for  us  to  worry  about 

[147] 


ALPHONSE  DAI DET 

it?  Our  daughter  is  married.  She  lives  a  long  way 
from  her  parents.  It  is  for  her  husband,  who  is  much 
older  than  she,  to  advise  and  guide  her.  Does  he  so 
much  as  think  of  doing  it?" 

Upon  that  the  little  man  began  to  inveigh  against 
his  son-in-law,  that  cold-blooded  Swiss,  who  passed  his 
life  in  his  office  devising  machines,  refused  to  accom- 
pany his  wife  into  society,  and  preferred  his  old-bach- 
elor habits,  his  pipe  and  his  brewery,  to  everything 
else. 

You  should  have  seen  the  air  of  aristocratic  disdain 
with  which  M.  Chebe  pronounced  the  word  ' '  brewery ! ' ' 
And  yet  almost  every  evening  he  went  there  to  meet 
Risler,  and  overwhelmed  him  with  reproaches  if  he 
once  failed  to  appear  at  the  rendezvous. 

Behind  all  this  verbiage  the  merchant  of  the  Rue  du 
Mail — "Commission — Exportation" — had  a  very  defi- 
nite idea.  He  wished  to  give  up  his  shop,  to  retire  from 
business,  and  for  some  time  he  had  been  thinking  of 
going  to  see  Sidonie,  in  order  to  interest  her  in  his  new 
schemes.  That  was  not  the  time,  therefore,  to  make 
disagreeable  scenes,  to  prate  about  paternal  authority 
and  conjugal  honor.  As  for  Madame  Chebe,  being 
somewhat  less  confident  than  before  of  her  daughter's 
virtue,  she  took  refuge  in  the  most  profound  silence. 
The  poor  woman  wished  that  she  were  deaf  and  blind 
— that  she  never  had  known  Mademoiselle  Planus. 

Like  all  persons  who  have  been  very  unhappy,  she 
loved  a  benumbed  existence  with  a  semblance  of  tran- 
quillity, and  ignorance  seemed  to  her  preferable  to 
everything.    As  if  life  were  not  sad  enough,  good 

[148] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

heavens !    And  then,  after  all,  Sidonie  had  always  been 
a  good  girl;  why  should  she  not  be  a  good  woman?" 

Night  was  falling.  M.  Chebe  rose  gravely  to  close 
the  shutters  of  the  shop  and  light  a  gas-jet  which  il- 
lumined the  bare  walls,  the  empty,  polished  shelves, 
and  the  whole  extraordinary  place,  which  reminded 
one  strongly  of  the  day  following  a  failure.  With  his 
lips  closed  disdainfully,  in  his  determination  to  remain 
silent,  he  seemed  to  say  to  the  old  lady,  "Night  has 
come — it  is  time  for  you  to  go  home."  And  all  the 
while  they  could  hear  Madame  Chebe  sobbing  in  the 
back  room,  as  she  went  to  and  fro  preparing  supper. 

Mademoiselle  Planus  got  no  further  satisfaction  from 
her  visit. 

"Well?"  queried  old  Sigismond,  who  was  impa- 
tiently awaiting  her  return. 

"They  wouldn't  believe  me,  and  politely  showed  me 
the  door." 

She  had  tears  in  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of  her 
humiliation. 

The  old  man's  face  flushed,  and  he  said  in  a  grave 
voice,  taking  his  sister's  hand: 

"Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister,  I  ask  your  pardon 
for  having  made  you  take  this  step;  but  the  honor  of 
the  house  of  Fromont  was  at  stake." 

From  that  moment  Sigismond  became  more  and 
more  depressed.  His  cash-box  no  longer  seemed  to 
him  safe  or  secure.  Even  when  Fromont  Jeune  did 
not  ask  him  for  money,  he  was  afraid,  and  he  summed 
up  all  his  apprehensions  in  four  words  which  came  con- 
tinually to  his  lips  when  talking  with  his  sister: 

[149] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"/  haj  no  gonfidence,^^  he  would  say,  in  his  hoarse 
Swiss  patois. 

Thinking  always  of  his  cash-box,  he  dreamed  some- 
times that  it  had  broken  apart  at  all  the  joints,  and 
insisted  on  remaining  open,  no  matter  how  much  he 
turned  the  key;  or  else  that  a  high  wind  had  scattered 
all  the  papers,  notes,  cheques,  and  bills,  and  that  he 
ran  after  them  all  over  the  factory,  tiring  himself  out 
in  the  attempt  to  pick  them  up. 

In  the  daytime,  as  he  sat  behind  his  grating  in  the 
silence  of  his  office,  he  imagined  that  a  little  white  mouse 
had  eaten  its  way  through  the  bottom  of  the  box  and 
was  gnawing  and  destroying  all  its  contents,  growing 
plumper  and  prettier  as  the  work  of  destruction  went  on. 

So  that,  when  Sidonie  appeared  on  the  steps  about 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  in  her  pretty  Parisian 
plumage,  old  Sigismond  shuddered  with  rage.  In  his 
eyes  it  was  the  ruin  of  the  house  that  stood  there,  ruin 
in  a  magnificent  costume,  with  its  little  coupe  at  the 
door,  and  the  placid  bearing  of  a  happy  coquette. 

Madame  Risler  had  no  suspicion  that,  at  that  win- 
dow on  the  ground  floor,  sat  an  untiring  foe  who 
watched  her  slightest  movements,  the  most  trivial  de- 
tails of  her  life,  the  going  and  coming  of  her  music- 
teacher,  the  arrival  of  the  fashionable  dressmaker  in 
the  morning,  all  the  boxes  that  were  brought  to  the 
house,  and  the  laced  cap  of  the  employ^  of  the  Maga- 
sin  du  Louvre,  whose  heavy  wagon  stopped  at  the  gate 
with  a  jingling  of  bells,  like  a  diligence  drawn  by  stout 
horses  which  were  dragging  the  house  of  Fromont  to 
bankruptcy  at  break-neck  speed. 

[150] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Sigismond  counted  the  packages,  weighed  them  with 
his  eye  as  they  passed,  and  gazed  inquisitively  into 
Risler's  apartments  through  the  open  windows.  The 
carpets  that  were  shaken  with  a  great  noise,  the  jardin- 
ieres that  were  brought  into  the  sunlight  filled  with 
fragile,  unseasonable  flowers,  rare  and  expensive,  the 
gorgeous  hangings — none  of  these  things  escaped  his 
notice. 

The  new  acquisitions  of  the  household  stared  him 
in  the  face,  reminding  him  of  some  request  for  a  large 
amount. 

But  the  one  thing  that  he  studied  more  carefully 
than  all  else  was  Risler's  countenance. 

In  his  view  that  woman  was  in  a  fair  way  to  change 
his  friend,  the  best,  the  most  upright  of  men,  into  a 
shameless  villain.  There  was  no  possibility  of  doubt 
that  Risler  knew  of  his  dishonor,  and  submitted  to  it. 
He  was  paid  to  keep  quiet. 

Certainly  there  was  something  monstrous  in  such  a 
supposition.  But  it  is  the  tendency  of  innocent  natures, 
when  they  are  made  acquainted  with  evil  for  the  first 
time,  to  go  at  once  too  far,  beyond  reason.  When  he 
was  once  convinced  of  the  treachery  of  Georges  and 
Sidonie,  Risler's  degradation  seemed  to  the  cashier  less 
impossible  of  comprehension.  On  what  other  theory 
could  his  indifference,  in  the  face  of  his  partner's  heavy 
expenditures,  be  explained  ? 

The  excellent  Sigismond,  in  his  narrow,  stereotyped 
honesty,  could  not  understand  the  delicacy  of  Risler's 
heart.  At  the  same  time,  the  methodical  bookkeeper's 
habit  of  thought  and  his  clear-sightedness  in  business 

[151] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

were  a  thousand  leagues  from  that  absent-minded, 
flighty  character,  half-artist,  half-inventor.  He  judged 
him  by  himself,  having  no  conception  of  the  condition 
of  a  man  with  the  disease  of  invention,  absorbed  by  a 
fixed  idea.  Such  men  are  somnambulists.  They  look, 
but  do  not  see,  their  eyes  being  turned  within. 

It  was  Sigismond's  belief  that  Risler  did  see.  That 
belief  made  the  old  cashier  very  unhappy.  He  began 
by  staring  at  his  friend  whenever  he  entered  the  count- 
ing-room; then,  discouraged  by  his  immovable  indif- 
ference, which  he  believed  to  be  wilful  and  premedi- 
tated, covering  his  face  like  a  mask,  he  adopted  the 
plan  of  turning  away  and  fumbling  among  his  papers 
to  avoid  those  false  glances,  and  keeping  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  garden  paths  or  the  interlaced  wires  of  the  grat- 
ing when  he  spoke  to  him.  Even  his  words  were  con- 
fused and  distorted,  like  his  glances.  No  one  could 
say  positively  to  whom  he  was  talking. 

No  more  friendly  smiles,  no  more  reminiscences  as 
they  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  cash-book  together. 

"This  was  the  year  you  came  to  the  factory.  Your 
first  increase  of  pay.  Do  you  remember?  We  dined 
at  Douix's  that  day.  And  then  the  Cafe  des  Aveugles 
in  the  evening,  eh?    What  a  debauch!" 

At  last  Risler  noticed  the  strange  coolness  that  had 
sprung  up  between  Sigismond  and  himself.  He  men- 
tioned it  to  his  wife. 

For  some  time  past  she  had  felt  that  antipathy 
prowling  about  her.  Sometimes,  as  she  crossed  the 
courtyard,  she  was  oppressed,  as  it  were,  by  malevolent 
glances  which  caused  her  to  turn  nervously  toward  the 

[152] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

old  cashier's  corner.  This  estrangement  between  the 
friends  alarmed  her,  and  she  very  quickly  determined 
to  put  her  husband  on  his  guard  against  Planus' s  un- 
pleasant remarks. 

"Don't  you  see  that  he  is  jealous  of  you,  of  your  posi- 
tion ?  A  man  who  was  once  his  equal,  now  his  superior, 
he  can't  stand  that.  But  why  bother  one's  head  about 
all  these  spiteful  creatures?  Why,  I  am  surrounded 
by  them  here." 

Risler  looked  at  her  with  wide-open  eyes: — "You?" 

"Why,  yes,  it  is  easy  enough  to  see  that  all  these 
people  detest  me.  They  bear  little  Chebe  a  grudge 
because  she  has  become  Madame  Risler  Aine.  Heaven 
only  knows  all  the  outrageous  things  that  are  said 
about  me!  And  your  cashier  doesn't  keep  his  tongue 
in  his  pocket,  I  assure  you.  What  a  spiteful  fellow 
he  is!" 

These  few  words  had  their  effect.  Risler,  indignant, 
but  too  proud  to  complain,  met  coldness  with  coldness. 
Those  two  honest  men,  each  intensely  distrustful  of  the 
other,  could  no  longer  meet  without  a  painful  sensa- 
tion, so  that,  after  a  while,  Risler  ceased  to  go  to  the 
counting-room  at  all.  It  was  not  difficult  for  him,  as 
Fromont  Jeune  had  charge  of  all  financial  matters. 
His  month's  allowance  was  carried  to  him  on  the 
thirtieth  of  each  month.  This  arrangement  afforded 
Sidonie  and  Georges  additional  facilities,  and  oppor- 
tunity for  all  sorts  of  underhand  dealing. 

She  thereupon  turned  her  attention  to  the  comple- 
tion of  her  programme  of  a  life  of  luxury.  She  lacked 
a  country  house.    In  her  heart  she  detested  the  trees, 

[153] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

the  fields,  the  country  roads  that  cover  you  with  dust. 
*'The  most  dismal  things  on  earth,"  she  used  to  say. 
But  Claire  Fromont  passed  the  summer  at  Savigny. 
As  soon  as  the  first  fine  days  arrived,  the  trunks  were 
packed  and  the  curtains  taken  down  on  the  floor  below; 
and  a  great  furniture  van,  with  the  little  girl's  blue 
bassinet  rocking  on  top,  set  off  for  the  grandfather's 
chateau.  Then,  one  morning,  the  mother,  grand- 
mother, child,  and  nurse,  a  medley  of  white  gowns  and 
light  veils,  would  drive  away  behind  two  fast  horses 
toward  the  sunny  lawns  and  the  pleasant  shade  of  the 
avenues. 

At  that  season  Paris  was  ugly,  depopulated;  and 
although  Sidonie  loved  it  even  in  the  summer,  which 
heats  it  like  a  furnace,  it  troubled  her  to  think  that  all 
the  fashion  and  wealth  of  Paris  were  driving  by  the 
seashore  under  their  light  umbrellas,  and  would  make 
their  outing  an  excuse  for  a  thousand  new  inventions, 
for  original  styles  of  the  most  risque  sort,  which  would 
permit  one  to  show  that  one  has  a  pretty  ankle  and 
long,  curly  chestnut  hair  of  one's  own. 

The  seashore  bathing  resorts!  She  could  not  think 
of  them;  Risler  could  not  leave  Paris. 

How  about  buying  a  country  house  ?  They  had  not 
the  means.  To  be  sure,  there  was  the  lover,  who 
would  have  asked  nothing  better  than  to  gratify  this 
latest  whim;  but  a  country  house  cannot  be  concealed 
like  a  bracelet  or  a  shawl.  The  husband  must  be  in- 
duced to  accept  it.  That  was  not  an  easy  matter;  how- 
ever, they  might  venture  to  try  it  with  Risler. 

To  pave  the  way,  she  talked  to  him  incessantly  about 
[154] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

a  little  nook  in  the  country,  not  too  expensive,  very  near 
Paris.  Risler  listened  with  a  smile.  He  thought  of  the 
high  grass,  of  the  orchard  filled  with  fine  fruit-trees, 
being  already  tormented  by  the  longing  to  possess  which 
comes  with  wealth;  but,  as  he  was  prudent,  he  said: 

"We  will  see,  we  will  see.  Let  us  wait  till  the  end 
of  the  year." 

The  end  of  the  year,  that  is  to  say,  the  striking  of  the 
balance-sheet. 

The  balance-sheet!  That  is  the  magic  word.  All 
through  the  year  we  go  on  and  on  in  the  eddying  whirl 
of  business.  Money  comes  and  goes,  circulates,  at- 
tracts other  money,  vanishes;  and  the  fortune  of  the 
firm,  like  a  slippery,  gleaming  snake,  always  in  motion, 
expands,  contracts,  diminishes,  or  increases,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  know  our  condition  until  there  comes  a 
moment  of  rest.  Not  until  the  inventory  shall  we 
know  the  truth,  and  whether  the  year,  which  seems  to 
have  been  prosperous,  has  really  been  so. 

The  account  of  stock  is  usually  taken  late  in  Decem- 
ber, between  Christmas  and  New  Year's  Day.  As  it 
requires  much  extra  labor  to  prepare  it,  everybody 
works  far  into  the  night.  The  whole  establishment  is 
alert.  The  lamps  remain  lighted  in  the  offices  long 
after  the  doors  are  closed,  and  seem  to  share  in  the 
festal  atmosphere  peculiar  to  that  last  week  of  the 
year,  when  so  many  windows  are  illuminated  for  fam- 
ily gatherings.  Every  one,,  even  to  the  least  important 
employe  of  the  firm,  is  interested  in  the  results  of  the 
inventory.  The  increases  of  salary,  the  New  Year's 
presents,  depend  upon  those  blessed  figures.    And  so, 

[155I 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

while  the  vast  interests  of  a  wealthy  house  are  trem- 
bling in  the  balance,  the  wives  and  children  and  aged 
parents  of  the  clerks,  in  their  fifth-floor  tenements  or 
poor  apartments  in  the  suburbs,  talk  of  nothing  but 
the  inventory,  the  results  of  which  will  make  themselves 
felt  either  by  a  greatly  increased  need  of  economy  or 
by  some  purchase,  long  postponed,  which  the  New 
Year's  gift  will  make  possible  at  last. 

On  the  premises  of  Fromont  Jeune  and  Risler  Ain^, 
Sigismond  Planus  is  the  god  of  the  establishment  at 
that  season,  and  his  little  office  a  sanctuary  where  all 
the  clerks  perform  their  devotions.  In  the  silence  of 
the  sleeping  factory,  the  heavy  pages  of  the  great  books 
rustle  as  they  are  turned,  and  names  called  aloud  cause 
search  to  be  made  in  other  books.  Pens  scratch.  The 
old  cashier,  surrounded  by  his  lieutenants,  has  a  busi- 
ness-like, awe-inspiring  air.  From  time  to  time  Fro- 
mont Jeune,  on  the  point  of  going  out  in  his  carriage, 
looks  in  for  a  moment,  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  neatly 
gloved  and  ready  for  the  street.  He  walks  slowly,  on 
tiptoe,  puts  his  face  to  the  grating: 

"Well! — are  you  getting  on  all  right?" 

Sigismond  gives  a  grunt,  and  the  young  master  takes 
his  leave,  afraid  to  ask  any  further  questions.  He 
knows  from  the  cashier's  expression  that  the  showing 
will  be  a  bad  one. 

In  truth,  since  the  days  of  the  Revolution,  when 
there  was  fighting  in  the  very  courtyard  of  the  factory, 
so  pitiable  an  inventory  never  had  been  seen  in  the 
Fromont  establishment.  Receipts  and  expenditures 
balanced  each  other.    The  general  expense  account 

[156] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

had  eaten  up  everything,  and,  furthermore,  Fromont 
Jeune  was  indebted  to  the  firm  in  a  large  sum.  You 
should  have  seen  old  Planus's  air  of  consternation 
when,  on  the  31st  of  December,  he  went  up  to  Georges's 
office  to  make  report  of  his  labors. 

Georges  took  a  very  cheerful  view  of  the  matter. 
Everything  would  go  better  next  year.  And  to  restore 
the  cashier's  good  humor  he  gave  him  an  extraordinary 
bonus  of  a  thousand  francs,  instead  of  the  five  hundred 
his  uncle  used  always  to  give.  Everybody  felt  the 
effects  of  that  generous  impulse,  and,  in  the  universal 
satisfaction,  the  deplorable  results  of  the  yearly  ac- 
counting were  very  soon  forgotten.  As  for  Risler, 
Georges  chose  to  take  it  upon  himself  to  inform  him 
as  to  the  situation. 

When  he  entered  his  partner's  little  closet,  which  was 
lighted  from  above  by  a  window  in  the  ceiling,  so  that 
the  light  fell  directly  upon  the  subject  of  the  inventor's 
meditations,  Fromont  hesitated  a  moment,  filled  with 
shame  and  remorse  for  what  he  was  about  to  do. 

The  other,  when  he  heard  the  door,  turned  joyfully 
toward  his  partner. 

"Chorche,  Chorche,  my  dear  fellow — I  have  got  it, 
our  press.  There  are  still  a  few  little  things  to  think 
out.  But  no  matter!  I  am  sure  now  of  my  invention: 
you  will  see — you  will  see!  Ah!  the  Prochassons  can 
experiment  all  they  choose.  With  the  Risler  Press  we 
will  crush  all  rivalry." 

"Bravo,  my  comrade!"  replied  Fromont  Jeune. 
"So  much  for  the  future;  but  you  don't  seem  to  think 
about  the  present.    What  about  this  inventory?" 

[  157  ]  / 

/ 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"Ah,  yes!  to  be  sure.  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it. 
It  isn't  very  satisfactory,  is  it?" 

He  said  that  because  of  the  somewhat  disturbed  and 
embarrassed  expression  on  Georges' s  face. 

"Why,  yes,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  very  satisfactory 
indeed,"  was  the  reply.  "We  have  every  reason  to  be 
satisfied,  especially  as  this  is  our  first  year  together. 
We  have  forty  thousand  francs  each  for  our  share  of  the 
profits;  and  as  I  thought  you  might  need  a  little  money 
to  give  your  wife  a  New  Year's  present " 

Ashamed  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the  honest  man  whose 
confidence  he  was  betraying,  Fromont  Jeunc  placed  a 
bundle  of  cheques  and  notes  on  the  table. 

Risler  was  deeply  moved  for  a  moment.  So  much 
money  at  one  time  for  him!  His  mind  dwelt  upon  the 
generosity  of  these  Fromonts,  who  had  made  him  what 
he  was;  then  he  thought  of  his  little  Sidonie,  of  the 
longing  which  she  had  so  often  expressed  and  which  he 
would  now  be  able  to  gratify. 

With  tears  in  his  eyes  and  a  happy  smile  on  his  lips, 
he  held  out  both  hands  to  his  partner. 

" I  am  very  happy !    I  am  very  happy!" 

That  was  his  favorite  phrase  on  great  occasions. 
Then  he  pointed  to  the  bundles  of  bank  notes  spread 
out  before  him  in  the  narrow  bands  which  are  used  to 
confine  those  fugitive  documents,  always  ready  to  fly 
away. 

"Do  you  know  what  that  is?"  he  said  to  Georges, 
with  an  air  of  triumph.  "That  is  Sidonie's  house  in 
the  country!" 

[158I 


CHAPTER  XII 


A  LETTER 


"To  M.  Frantz  Risler, 

"Engineer  of  the  Compagnie  Fran^aise, 
"Ismailia,  Egypt. 
'RANTZ,  my  boy,  it  is  old  Sigismond  who  is 
writing  to  you.  If  I  knew  better  how  to  put 
my  ideas  on  paper,  I  should  have  a  very  long 
story  to  tell  you.  But  this  infernal  French  is 
too  hard,  and  Sigismond  Planus  is  good  for 
nothing  away  from  his  figures.  So  I  will  come 
to  the  point  at  once. 

''Affairs  in  your  brother's  house  are  not  as 
they  should  be.  That  woman  is  false  to  him 
with  his  partner.  She  has  made  her  husband 
a  laughing-stock,  and  if  this  goes  on  she  will  cause  him  to  be 
looked  upon  as  a  rascal.  Frantz,  my  boy,  you  must  come  home 
at  once.  You  are  the  only  one  who  can  speak  to  Risler  and  open 
his  eyes  about  that  little  Sidonie.  He  would  not  believe  any  of  us. 
Ask  leave  of  absence  at  once,  and  come. 

"I  know  that  you  have  your  bread  to  earn  out  there,  and  your 
future  to  assure;  but  a  man  of  honor  should  think  more  of  the 
name  his  parents  gave  him  than  of  anything  else.  And  I  tell  you 
that  if  you  do  not  come  at  once,  a  time  will  come  when  the  name 
of  Risler  will  be  so  overwhelmed  with  shame  that  you  will  not  dare 
to  bear  it» 

"Sigismond  Planus, 

''Cashier:* 


[159I 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THE  JUDGE 

^HOSE  persons  who  live  always  in- 
doors, confined  by  work  or  infirmity 
to  a  chair  by  the  window,  take  a  deep 
interest  in  the  people  who  pass,  just 
as  they  make  for  themselves  a  hori- 
zon of  the  neighboring  walls,  roofs, 
and  windows. 

Nailed  to  their  place,  they  live  in 
the  life  of  the  streets;  and  the  busy  men  and  women 
who  pass  within  their  range  of  vision,  sometimes  every 
day  at  the  same  hour,  do  not  suspect  that  they  serve  as 
the  mainspring  of  other  lives,  that  interested  eyes  watch 
for  their  coming  and  miss  them  if  they  happen  to  go  to 
their  destination  by  another  road. 

The  Delobelles,  left  to  themselves  all  day,  indulged 
in  this  sort  of  silent  observation.  Their  window  was 
narrow,  and  the  mother,  whose  eyes  were  beginning  to 
weaken  as  the  result  of  hard  usage,  sat  near  the  light 
against  the  drawn  muslin  curtain ;  her  daughter's  large 
armchair  was  a  little  farther  away.  She  announced 
the  approach  of  their  daily  passers-by.  It  was  a  di- 
version, a  subject  of  conversation;  and  the  long  hours 
of  toil  seemed  shorter,  marked  off  by  the  regular  ap- 
pearance of  people  who  were  as  busy  as  they.    There 

[i6o] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

were  two  little  sisters,  a  gentleman  in  a  gray  overcoat, 
a  child  who  was  taken  to  school  and  taken  home  again, 
and  an  old  government  clerk  with  a  wooden  leg,  whose 
step  on  the  sidewalk  had  a  sinister  sound. 

They  hardly  ever  saw  him;  he  passed  after  dark, 
but  they  heard  him,  and  the  sound  always  struck  the 
little  cripple's  ears  like  a  harsh  echo  of  her  own  mourn- 
ful thoughts.  All  these  street  friends  unconsciously 
occupied  a  large  place  in  the  lives  of  the  two  women. 
If  it  rained,  they  would  say: 

"They  will  get  wet.  I  wonder  whether  the  child  got 
home  before  the  shower."  And  when  the  season 
changed,  when  the  March  sun  inundated  the  sidewalks 
or  the  December  snow  covered  them  with  its  white 
mantle  and  its  patches  of  black  mud,  the  appearance 
of  a  new  garment  on  one  of  their  friends  caused  the 
two  recluses  to  say  to  themselves,  "It  is  summer,"  or, 
"winter  has  come." 

Now,  on  a  certain  evening  in  May,  one  of  those  soft, 
luminous  evenings  when  life  flows  forth  from  the  houses 
into  the  street  through  the  open  windows,  Desiree  and 
her  mother  were  busily  at  work  with  needles  and  fin- 
gers, exhausting  the  daylight  to  its  last  ray,  before  light- 
ing the  lamp.  They  could  hear  the  shouts  of  children 
playing  in  the  yards,  the  muffled  notes  of  pianos,  and 
the  voice  of  a  street  peddler,  drawing  his  half-empty 
wagon.  One  could  smell  the  springtime  in  the  air,  a 
vague  odor  of  hyacinth  and  lilac. 

Mamma  Delobelle  had  laid  aside  her  work,  and,  be- 
fore closing  the  window,  leaned  upon  the  sill  listening 
to  all  these  noises  of  a  great  toiling  city,  taking  delight 
II  [  i6i  ] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET  | 


in  walking  through  the  streets  when  its  day's  work  was 
ended.  From  time  to  time  she  spoke  to  her  daughter, 
without  turning  her  head. 

"Ah!  there's  Monsieur  Sigismond.  How  early  he 
leaves  the  factory  to-night!  It  may  be  because  the 
days  are  lengthening  so  fast,  but  I  don't  think  it  can 
be  seven  o'clock.  Who  can  that  man  be  with  the  old 
cashier? — What  a  funny  thing! — One  would  say — 
Why,  yes! — One  would  say  it  was  Monsieur  Frantz. 
But  that  isn't  possible.  Monsieur  Frantz  is  a  long 
way  from  here  at  this  moment;  and  then  he  had  no 
beard.  That  man  looks  like  him  all  the  same!  Just 
look,  my  dear." 

{-■  But  "my  dear"  does  not  leave  her  chair;  she  does 
not  even  stir.  With  her  eyes  staring  into  vacancy,  her 
needle  in  the  air,  arrested  in  its  pretty,  industrious 
movement,  she  has  gone  away  to  the  blue  country,  that 
wonderful  country  whither  one  may  go  at  will,  with- 
out thought  of  any  infirmity.  The  name  "Frantz," 
uttered  mechanically  by  her  mother,  because  of  a 
chance  resemblance,  represented  to  her  a  whole  life- 
time of  illusions,  of  fervent  hopes,  ephemeral  as  the 
flush  that  rose  to  her  cheeks  when,  on  returning  home 
at  night,  he  used  to  come  and  chat  with  her  a  moment. 
How  far  away  that  was  already!  To  think  that  he  used 
to  live  in  the  little  room  near  hers,  that  they  used  to 
hear  his  step  on  the  stairs  and  the  noise  made  by  his 
table  when  he  dragged  it  to  the  window  to  drawl 
What  sorrow  and  what  happiness  she  used  to  feel  when 
he  talked  to  her  of  Sidonie,  sitting  on  the  low  chair  at  her 
knees,  while  she  mounted  her  birds  and  her  insects. 

[162 1 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

As  she  worked,  she  used  to  cheer  and  comfort  him, 
for  Sidonie  had  caused  poor  Frantz  many  little  griefs 
before  the  last  great  one.  His  tone  when  he  spoke  of 
Sidonie,  the  sparkle  in  his  eyes  when  he  thought  of  her, 
fascinated  Desiree  in  spite  of  everything,  so  that  when 
he  went  away  in  despair,  he  left  behind  him  a  love  even 
greater  than  that  he  carried  with  him — a  love  which 
the  unchanging  room,  the  sedentary,  stagnant  life,  kept 
intact  with  all  its  bitter  perfume,  whereas  his  would 
gradually  fade  away  and  vanish  in  the  fresh  air  of  the 
outer  world. 

It  grows  darker  and  darker.  A  great  wave  of  mel- 
ancholy envelops  the  poor  girl  with  the  falling  darkness 
of  that  balmy  evening.  The  blissful  gleam  from  the 
past  dies  away  as  the  last  glimmer  of  daylight  vanishes 
in  the  narrow  recess  of  the  window,  where  her  mother 
still  stands  leaning  on  the  sill. 

Suddenly  the  door  opens.  Some  one  is  there  whose 
features  can  not  be  distinguished.  Who  can  it  be? 
The  Delobelles  never  receive  calls.  The  mother,  who 
has  turned  her  head,  thinks  at  first  that  some  one  has 
come  from  the  shop  to  get  the  week's  work. 

"My  husband  has  just  gone  to  your  place,  Mon- 
sieur. We  have  nothing  here.  Monsieur  Delobelle  has 
taken  everything." 

The  man  comes  forward  without  speaking,  and  as  he 
approaches  the  window  his  features  can  be  distin- 
guished. He  is  a  tall,  solidly  built  fellow  with  a 
bronzed  face,  a  thick,  red  beard,  and  a  deep  voice,  and 
is  a  little  slow  of  speech. 

"Aha!  so  you  don't  know  me,  Mamma  Delobelle?" 
[163] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"Oh!  I  knew  you  at  once,  Monsieur  Frantz,"  said 
Desiree,  very  calmly,  in  a  cold,  sedate  tone. 

"Merciful  heavens!  it's  Monsieur  Frantz." 

Quickly  Mamma  Delobelle  runs  to  the  lamp,  lights 
it,  and  closes  the  window. 

"What!  it  is  you,  is  it,  my  dear  Frantz?"  How 
coolly  she  says  it,  the  little  rascal!  "I  knew  you  at 
once."  Ah,  the  little  iceberg!  She  will  always  be  the 
same. 

A  veritable  little  iceberg,  in  very  truth.  She  is  very 
pale,  and  her  hand  as  it  lies  in  Frantz's  is  white  and 
cold. 

She  seems  to  him  improved,  even  more  refined  than 
before.  He  seems  to  her  superb,  as  always,  with  a 
melancholy,  weary  expression  in  the  depths  of  his  eyes, 
which  makes  him  more  of  a  man  than  when  he  went 
away. 

His  weariness  is  due  to  his  hurried  journey,  under- 
taken immediately  on  his  receipt  of  Sigismond's  letter. 
Spurred  on  by  the  word  dishonor,  he  had  started  in- 
stantly, without  awaiting  his  leave  of  absence,  risking 
his  place  and  his  future  prospects;  and,  hurrying  from 
steamships  to  railways,  he  had  not  stopped  until  he 
reached  Paris.  Reason  enough  for  being  weary,  espe- 
cially when  one  has  travelled  in  eager  haste  to  reach 
one's  destination,  and  when  one's  mind  has  been  con- 
tinually beset  by  impatient  thoughts,  making  the 
journey  ten  times  over  in  incessant  doubt  and  fear 
and  perplexity. 

His  melancholy  began  further  back.  It  began  on 
the  day  when  the  woman  he  loved  refused  to  marry 

[164] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

him,  to  become,  six  months  later,  the  wife  of  his  brother; 
two  terrible  blows  in  close  succession,  the  second  even 
more  painful  than  the  first.  It  is  true  that,  before 
entering  into  that  marriage,  Risler  had  written  to  him 
to  ask  his  permission  to  be  happy,  and  had  written  in 
such  touching,  affectionate  terms  that  the  violence  of 
the  blow  was  somewhat  diminished;  and  then,  in  due 
time,  life  in  a  strange  country,  hard  work,  and  long 
journeys  had  softened  his  grief.  Now  only  a  vast 
background  of  melancholy  remains;  unless,  indeed, 
the  hatred  and  wrath  by  which  he  is  animated  at  this 
moment  against  the  woman  who  is  dishonoring  his 
brother  may  be  a  remnant  of  his  former  love. 

But  no!  Frantz  Risler  thinks  only  of  avenging  the 
honor  of  the  Rislers.  He  comes  not  as  a  lover,  but  as 
a  judge ;  and  Sidonie  may  well  look  to  herself. 

The  judge  had  gone  straight  to  the  factory  on  leaving 
the  train,  relying  upon  the  surprise,  the  unexpectedness, 
of  his  arrival  to  disclose  to  him  at  a  glance  what  was 
taking  place. 

Unluckily  he  had  found  no  one.  The  blinds  of  the 
little  house  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  had  been  closed 
for  two  weeks.  Pere  Achille  informed  him  that  the 
ladies  were  at  their  respective  country  seats  where  the 
partners  joined  them  every  evening. 

Fromont  Jeune  had  left  the  factory  very  early;  Ris- 
ler Aine  had  just  gone.  Frantz  decided  to  speak  to  old 
Sigismond.  But  it  was  Saturday,  the  regular  pay-day, 
and  he  must  needs  wait  until  the  long  line  of  workmen, 
extending  from  Achille's  lodge  to  the  cashier's  grated 
window,  had  gradually  dispersed. 

[165] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Although  very  impatient  and  very  depressed,  the  ex- 
cellent youth,  who  had  lived  the  life  of  a  Paris  working- 
man  from  his  childhood,  felt  a  thrill  of  pleasure  at  find- 
ing himself  once  more  in  the  midst  of  the  animated 
scenes  peculiar  to  that  time  and  place.  Upon  all  those 
faces,  honest  or  vicious,  was  an  expression  of  satisfac- 
tion that  the  week  was  at  an  end.  You  felt  that,  so  far 
as  they  were  concerned,  Sunday  began  at  seven  o'clock 
Saturday  evening,  in  front  of  the  cashier's  little  lamp. 

One  must  have  lived  among  workingmen  to  realize 
the  full  charm  of  that  one  day's  rest  and  its  solemnity. 
Many  of  these  poor  creatures,  bound  fast  to  unhealth- 
ful  trades,  await  the  coming  of  the  blessed  Sunday  like 
a  puff  of  refreshing  air,  essential  to  their  health  and 
their  life.  What  an  overflow  of  spirits,  therefore,  what 
a  pressing  need  of  noisy  mirth!  It  seems  as  if  the  op- 
pression of  the  week's  labor  vanishes  with  the  steam 
from  the  machinery,  as  it  escapes  in  a  hissing  cloud  of 
vapor  over  the  gutters. 

One  by  one  the  workmen  moved  away  from  the 
grating,  counting  the  money  that  glistened  in  their 
black  hands.  There  were  disappointments,  mutter- 
ings,  remonstrances,  hours  missed,  money  drawn  in 
advance;  and  above  the  tinkling  of  coins,  Sigismond's 
voice  could  be  heard,  calm  and  relentless,  defending 
the  interests  of  his  employers  with  a  zeal  amounting  to 
ferocity. 

Frantz  was  familiar  with  all  the  dramas  of  pay-day, 
the  false  accents  and  the  true.  He  knew  that  one 
man's  wages  were  expended  for  his  family,  to  pay  the 
baker  and  the  druggist,  or  for  his  children's  schooling. 

[i66] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Another  wanted  his  money  for  the  wine-shop  or  for 
something  even  worse.  And  the  melancholy,  down- 
cast shadows  passing  to  and  fro  in  front  of  the  factory 
gateway — he  knew  what  they  were  waiting  for — that 
they  were  all  on  the  watch  for  a  father  or  a  husband, 
to  hurry  him  home  with  complaining  or  coaxing  words. 

Oh!  the  barefooted  children,  the  tiny  creatures 
wrapped  in  old  shawls,  the  shabby  women,  whose  tear- 
stained  faces  were  as  white  as  the  linen  caps  that  sur- 
mounted them. 

Oh!  the  lurking  vice  that  prowls  about  on  pay-day, 
the  candles  that  are  lighted  in  the  depths  of  dark  alleys, 
the  dirty  windows  of  the  wine-shops  where  the  thou- 
sand-and-one  poisonous  concoctions  of  alcohol  display 
their  alluring  colors. 

Frantz  was  familiar  with  all  these  forms  of  misery; 
but  never  had  they  seemed  to  him  so  depressing,  so 
harrowing  as  on  that  evening. 

When  the  last  man  was  paid,  Sigismond  came  out  of 
his  office.  The  two  friends  recognized  each  other  and 
embraced ;  and  in  the  silence  of  the  factory,  at  rest  for 
twenty-four  hours  and  deathly  still  in  all  its  empty 
buildings,  the  cashier  explained  to  Frantz  the  state  of 
affairs.  He  described  Sidonie's  conduct,  her  mad  ex- 
travagance, the  total  wreck  of  the  family  honor.  The 
Rislers  had  bought  a  country  house  at  Asnieres,  for- 
merly the  property  of  an  actress,  and  had  set  up  a 
sumptuous  establishment  there.  They  had  horses  and 
carriages,  and  led  a  luxurious,  gay  life.  The  thing  that 
especially  disturbed  honest  Sigismond  was  the  self- 
restraint  of  Fromont  Jeune.    For  some  time  he  had 

[167] 


ALPIIONSE  DAUDET 

drawn  almost  no  money  from  the  strong-box,  and  yet 
Sidonie  was  spending  more  than  ever. 

"/  haj  no  gonfidencel'^  said  the  unhappy  cashier, 
shaking  his  head,  "/  haf  no  gonfidencel  " 

Lowering  his  voice  he  added : 

"But  your  brother,  my  little  Frantz,  your  brother? 
Who  can  explain  his  actions  ?  He  goes  about  through 
it  all  with  his  eyes  in  the  air,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  mind  on  his  famous  invention,  which  unfortunately 
doesn't  move  fast.  Look  here!  do  you  want  me  to 
give  you  my  opinion? — He's  either  a  knave  or  a  fool." 

They  were  walking  up  and  down  the  little  garden 
as  they  talked,  stopping  for  a  moment,  then  resuming 
their  walk.  Frantz  felt  as  if  he  were  living  in  a  horrible 
dream.  The  rapid  journey,  the  sudden  change  of  scene 
and  climate,  the  ceaseless  flow  of  Sigismond's  words, 
the  new  idea  that  he  had  to  form  of  Risler  and  Sidonie 
— the  same  Sidonie  he  had  loved  so  dearly — all  these 
things  bewildered  him  and  almost  drove  him  mad. 

It  was  late.  Night  was  falling,  Sigismond  proposed 
to  him  to  go  to  Montrouge  for  the  night ;  he  declined 
on  the  plea  of  fatigue,  and  when  he  was  left  alone  in 
the  Marais,  at  that  dismal  and  uncertain  hour  when 
the  daylight  has  faded  and  the  gas  is  still  unlighted,  he 
walked  instinctively  toward  his  old  quarters  on  the 
Rue  de  Braque. 

At  the  hall  door  hung  a  placard :  Bachelor^ s  Chamber 
to  let. 

It  was  the  same  room  in  which  he  had  lived  so  long 
with  his  brother.  He  recognized  the  map  fastened  to 
the  wall  by  four  pins,  the  window  on  the  landing,  and 

[i68] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

the  Delobelles'  little  sign:  Birds  and  Insects  jor  Orna- 
ment. 

Their  door  was  ajar;  he  had  only  to  push  it  a  little 
in  order  to  enter  the  room. 

Certainly  there  was  not  in  all  Paris  a  surer  refuge 
for  him,  a  spot  better  fitted  to  welcome  and  console  his 
perturbed  spirit,  than  that  hard-working  familiar  fire- 
side. In  his  present  agitation  and  perplexity  it  was 
like  the  harbor  with  its  smooth,  deep  water,  the  sunny, 
peaceful  quay,  where  the  women  work  while  awaiting 
their  husbands  and  fathers,  though  the  wind  howls  and  the 
sea  rages.  More  than  all  else,  although  he  did  not  real- 
ize that  it  was  so,  it  was  a  network  of  steadfast  affection, 
that  miraculous  love-kindness  which  makes  another's 
love  precious  to  us  even  when  we  do  not  love  that  other. 

That  dear  little  iceberg  of  a  Desiree  loved  him  so 
dearly.  Her  eyes  sparkled  so  even  when  talking  of  the 
most  indifferent  things  with  him.  As  objects  dipped  in 
phosphorus  shine  with  equal  splendor,  so  the  most 
trivial  words  she  said  illuminated  her  pretty,  radiant 
face.  What  a  blissful  rest  it  was  for  him  after  Sigis- 
mond's  brutal  disclosures! 

They  talked  together  with  great  animation  while 
Mamma  Delobelle  was  setting  the  table. 

"You  will  dine  with  us,  won't  you.  Monsieur  Frantz? 
Father  has  gone  to  take  back  the  work;  but  he  will 
surely  come  home  to  dinner." 

He  will  surely  come  home  to  dinner! 

The  good  woman  said  it  with  a  certain  pride. 

In  fact,  since  the  failure  of  his  managerial  scheme, 
the  illustrious  Delobelle  no  longer  took  his  meals  abroad, 

[169] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

even  on  the  evenings  when  he  went  to  collect  the  weekly 
earnings.  The  unlucky  manager  had  eaten  so  many 
meals  on  credit  at  his  restaurant  that  he  dared  not  go 
there  again.  By  way  of  compensation,  he  never  failed, 
on  Saturday,  to  bring  home  with  him  two  or  three  un- 
expected, famished  guests — "old  comrades" — "un- 
lucky devils."  So  it  happened  that,  on  the  evening  in 
question,  he  appeared  upon  the  stage  escorting  a 
financier  from  the  Metz  theatre  and  a  comique  from  the 
theatre  at  Angers,  both  waiting  for  an  engagement. 

The  comique,  closely  shaven,  wrinkled,  shrivelled  by 
the  heat  from  the  footlights,  looked  like  an  old  street- 
arab;  the  financier  wore  cloth  shoes,  and  no  linen,  so 
far  as  could  be  seen. 

"Frantz! — my  Frantz!"  cried  the  old  strolling 
player  in  a  melodramatic  voice,  clutching  the  air  con- 
vulsively with  his  hands.  After  a  long  and  energetic 
embrace  he  presented  his  guests  to  one  another. 

"Monsieur  Robricart,  of  the  theatre  at  Metz. 

"  Monsieur  Chaudezon,  of  the  theatre  at  Angers. 

"Frantz  Risler,  engineer." 

In  Delobelle's  mouth  that  word  "engineer"  assumed 
vast  proportions! 

Desiree  pouted  prettily  when  she  saw  her  father's 
friends.  It  would  have  been  so  nice  to  be  by  them- 
selves on  a  day  like  to-day.  But  the  great  man  snapped 
his  fingers  at  the  thought.  He  had  enough  to  do  to  un- 
load his  pockets.  First  of  all,  he  produced  a  superb  pie 
— "  for  the  ladies,"  he  said,  forgetting  that  he  adored  pie. 
A  lobster  next  made  its  appearance,  then  an  Aries  sau- 
sage, marrons  glaces  and  cherries,  the  first  of  the  season! 

[170] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

While  the  financier  enthusiastically  pulled  up  the 
collar  of  his  invisible  shirt,  while  the  comique  exclaimed 
"gnoiij!  gnouj!  "  with  a  gesture  forgotten  by  Parisians 
for  ten  years,  Desiree  thought  with  dismay  of  the  enor- 
mous hole  that  impromptu  banquet  would  make  in  the 
paltry  earnings  of  the  week,  and  Mamma  Delobelle, 
full  of  business,  upset  the  whole  buffet  in  order  to  find 
a  sufficient  number  of  plates. 

It  was  a  very  lively  meal.  The  two  actors  ate  vora- 
ciously, to  the  great  delight  of  Delobelle,  who  talked 
over  with  them  old  memories  of  their  days  of  strolling. 
Fancy  a  collection  of  odds  and  ends  of  scenery,  extinct 
lanterns,  and  mouldy,  crumbling  stage  properties. 

In  a  sort  of  vulgar,  meaningless,  familiar  slang,  they 
recalled  their  innumerable  triumphs;  for  all  three  of 
them,  according  to  their  own  stories,  had  been  ap- 
plauded, laden  with  laurel-wreaths,  and  carried  in 
triumph  by  whole  cities. 

While  they  talked  they  ate  as  actors  usually  eat, 
sitting  with  their  faces  turned  three-fourths  toward  the 
audience,  with  the  unnatural  haste  of  stage  guests  at  a 
pasteboard  supper,  alternating  words  and  mouthfuls, 
seeking  to  produce  an  effect  by  their  manner  of  putting 
down  a  glass  or  moving  a  chair,  and  expressing'  inter- 
est, amazement,  joy,  terror,  surprise,  with  the  aid  of  a 
skilfully  handled  knife  and  fork.  Madame  Delobelle 
listened  to  them  with  a  smiling  face. 

One  can  not  be  an  actor's  wife  for  thirty  years  with- 
out becoming  somewhat  accustomed  to  these  peculiar 
mannerisms. 

But  one  little  comer  of  the  table  was  separated  from 
[171] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

the  rest  of  the  party  as  by  a  cloud  which  intercepted 
the  absurd  remarks,  the  hoarse  laughter,  the  boast- 
ing. Frantz  and  Desiree  talked  together  in  under- 
tones, hearing  naught  of  what  was  said  around  them. 
Things  that  happened  in  their  childhood,  anecdotes  of 
the  neighborhood,  a  whole  ill-defined  past  which  de- 
rived its  only  value  from  the  mutual  memories  evoked, 
from  the  spark  that  glowed  in  the  eyes  of  both — those 
were  the  themes  of  their  pleasant  chat. 

Suddenly  the  cloud  was  torn  aside,  and  Delobelle's 
terrible  voice  interrupted  the  dialogue. 

"Have  you  not  seen  your  brother?"  he  asked,  in 
order  to  avoid  the  appearance  of  neglecting  him  too 
much.  "And  you  have  not  seen  his  wife,  either? — 
Ah!  you  will  find  her  a  Madame.  Such  toilettes,  my 
dear  fellow,  and  such  chic!  I  assure  you.  They  have 
a  genuine  chateau  at  Asnieres.  The  Chebes  are  there 
also.  Ah!  my  old  friend,  they  have  all  left  us  behind. 
They  are  rich,  they  look  down  on  old  friends.  Never 
a  word,  never  a  call.  For  my  part,  you  understand,  I 
snap  my  fingers  at  them,  but  it  really  wounds  these 
ladies." 

"Oh,  papa!"  said  Desiree  hastily,  "you  know  very 
well  that  we  are  too  fond  of  Sidonie  to  be  offended  with 
her." 

The  actor  smote  the  table  a  violent  blow  with  his 
fist. 

"Why,  then,  you  do  wrong.  You  ought  to  be  of- 
fended with  people  who  seek  always  to  wound  and  hu- 
miliate you." 

He  still  had  upon  his  mind  the  refusal  to  furnish 
[172] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

funds  for  his  theatrical  project,  and  he  made  no  secret 
of  his  wrath. 

"If  you  knew,"  he  said  to  Frantz,  "if  you  knew  how 
money  is  being  squandered  over  yonder!  It  is  a  great 
pity.  And  nothing  substantial,  nothing  sensible.  I — 
I  who  speak  to  you,  asked  your  brother  for  a  paltry 
sum  to  assure  my  future  and  himself  a  handsome 
profit.  He  flatly  refused.  Parbleu!  Madame  re- 
quires too  much.  She  rides,  goes  to  the  races  in  her 
carriage,  and  drives  her  husband  at  the  same  rate  as 
her  little  phaeton  on  the  quay  at  Asnieres.  Between 
you  and  me,  I  don't  think  that  our  good  friend  Risler 
is  very  happy.  That  woman  makes  him  believe  black 
is  white." 

The  ex-actor  concluded  his  harangue  with  a  wink 
at  the  comiqtie  and  the  financier,  and  for  a  moment  the 
three  exchanged  glances,  conventional  grimaces,  fia- 
has!  and  hum-hums!  and  all  the  usual  pantomime 
expressive  of  thoughts  too  deep  for  words. 

Frantz  was  struck  dumb.  Do  what  he  would,  the 
horrible  certainty  assailed  him  on  all  sides.  Sigismond 
had  spoken  in  accordance  with  his  nature,  Delobelle 
with  his.     The  result  was  the  same. 

Fortunately  the  dinner  was  drawing  near  its  close. 
The  three  actors  left  the  table  and  betook  themselves 
to  the  brewery  on  the  Rue  Blondel.  Frantz  remained 
with  the  two  women. 

As  he  sat  beside  her,  gentle  and  affectionate  in  man- 
ner, Desiree  was  suddenly  conscious  of  a  great  outflow 
of  gratitude  to  Sidonie.  She  said  to  herself  that,  after 
all,  it  was  to  her  generosity  that  she  owed  this  sem- 

[173] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

blance  of  happiness,  and  that  thought  gave  her  courage 
to  defend  her  former  friend. 

"You  see,  Monsieur  Frantz,  you  mustn't  believe  all 
my  father  told  you  about  your  sister-in-law.  Dear 
papa!  he  always  exaggerates  a  little.  For  my  own 
part,  I  am  very  sure  that  Sidonie  is  incapable  of  all  the 
evil  she  is  accused  of.  I  am  sure  that  her  heart  has 
remained  the  same,  and  that  she  is  still  fond  of  her 
friends,  although  she  does  neglect  them  a  little.  Such 
is  life,  you  know.  Friends  drift  apart  without  mean- 
ing to.     Isn't  that  true.  Monsieur  Frantz?" 

Oh !  how  pretty  she  was  in  his  eyes,  while  she  talked 
in  that  strain.  He  never  had  taken  so  much  notice  of 
the  refined  features,  the  aristocratic  pallor  of  her  com- 
plexion; and  when  he  left  her  that  evening,  deeply 
touched  by  the  warmth  she  had  displayed  in  defending 
Sidonie,  by  all  the  charming  feminine  excuses  she  put 
forward  for  her  friend's  silence  and  neglect,  Frantz 
Risler  reflected,  with  a  feeling  of  selfish  and  ingenuous 
pleasure,  that  the  child  had  loved  him  once,  and  that 
perhaps  she  loved  him  still,  and  kept  for  him  in  the  bot- 
tom of  her  heart  that  warm,  sheltered  spot  to  which 
we  turn  as  to  the  sanctuary  when  life  has  wounded  us. 

All  night  long  in  his  old  room,  lulled  by  the  imaginary 
movement  of  the  vessel,  by  the  murmur  of  the  waves 
and  the  howling  of  the  wind  which  follow  long  sea 
voyages,  he  dreamed  of  his  youthful  days,  of  little 
Ch^be  and  D6sir6e  Delobelle,  of  their  games,  their 
labors,  and  of  the  Ecole  Centrale,  whose  great,  gloomy 
buildings  were  sleeping  near  at  hand,  in  the  dark  street? 
of  the  Marais. 

[ml 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER      • 

And  when  daylight  came,  and  the  sun  shining  in  at 
his  bare  window  vexed  his  eyes  and  brought  him  back 
to  a  realization  of  the  duty  that  lay  before  him  and  to 
the  anxieties  of  the  day,  he  dreamed  that  it  was  time  to 
go  to  the  School,  and  that  his  brother,  before  going  down 
to  the  factory,  opened  the  door  and  called  to  him : 

"Come,  lazybones!    Come!" 

That  dear,  loving  voice,  too  natural,  too  real  for  a 
dream,  made  him  open  his  eyes  without  more  ado. 

Risler  was  standing  by  his  bed,  watching  his  awaken- 
ing with  a  charming  smile,  not  untinged  by  emotion; 
that  it  was  Risler  himself  was  evident  from  the  fact 
that,  in  his  joy  at  seeing  his  brother  Frantz  once  more, 
he  could  find  nothing  better  to  say  than,  "I  am  very 
happy,  I  am  very  happy!" 

Although  it  was  Sunday,  Risler,  as  was  his  custom, 
had  come  to  the  factory  to  avail  himself  of  the  silence 
and  solitude  to  work  at  his  press.  Immediately  on  his 
arrival,  Pere  Achille  had  informed  him  that  his  brother 
was  in  Paris  and  had  gone  to  the  old  house  on  the  Rue 
de  Braque,  and  he  had  hastened  thither  in  joyful  sur- 
prise, a  little  vexed  that  he  had  not  been  forewarned, 
and  especially  that  Frantz  had  defrauded  him  of  the 
first  evening.  His  regret  on  that  account  came  to  the 
surface  every  moment  in  his  spasmodic  attempts  at 
conversation,  in  which  everything  that  he  wanted  to 
say  was  left  unfinished,  interrupted  by  innumerable 
questions  on  all  sorts  of  subjects  and  explosions  of 
affection  and  joy.  Frantz  excused  himself  on  the  plea 
of  fatigue,  and  the  pleasure  it  had  given  him  to  be  in 
their  old  room  once  more. 

[175] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"All  right,  all  right,"  said  Risler,  "but  I  sha'n't  let 
you  alone  now — you  are  coming  to  Asnieres  at  once. 
I  give  myself  leave  of  absence  to-day.  All  thought  of 
work  is  out  of  the  question  now  that  you  have  come, 
you  understand.  Ah!  won't  the  little  one  be  surprised 
and  glad!  We  talk  about  you  so  often!  What  joy! 
what  joy!" 

The  poor  fellow  fairly  beamed  with  happiness;  he, 
the  silent  man,  chattered  like  a  magpie,  gazed  admir- 
ingly at  his  Frantz  and  remarked  upon  his  growth. 
The  pupil  of  the  Ecole  Centrale  had  had  a  fine  physique 
when  he  went  away,  but  his  features  had  acquired 
greater  firmness,  his  shoulders  were  broader,  and  it 
was  a  far  cry  from  the  tall,  studious-looking  boy  who 
had  left  Paris  two  years  before,  for  Ismailia,  to  this 
handsome,  bronzed  corsair,  with  his  serious  yet  win- 
ning face. 

While  Risler  was  gazing  at  him,  Frantz,  on  his  side, 
was  closely  scrutinizing  his  brother,  and,  finding  him 
the  same  as  always,  as  ingenuous,  as  loving,  and  as 
absent-minded  as  times,  he  said  to  himself: 

"No!  it  is  not  possible — he  has  not  ceased  to  be  an 
honest  man." 

Thereupon,  as  he  reflected  upon  what  people  had 
dared  to  imagine,  all  his  "\\Tath  turned  against  that 
hypocritical,  vicious  woman,  who  deceived  her  husband 
so  impudently  and  with  such  absolute  impunity  that 
she  succeeded  in  causing  him  to  be  considered  her  con- 
federate. Oh!  what  a  terrible  reckoning  he  proposed 
to  have  with  her;  how  pitilessly  he  would  talk  to 
her! 

[176] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"I  forbid  you,  Madame — understand  what  I  say — I 
forbid  you  to  dishonor  my  brother!" 

He  was  thinking  of  that  all  the  way,  as  he  watched 
the  still  leafless  trees  glide  along  the  embankment  of 
the  Saint-Germain  railway.  Sitting  opposite  him,  Ris- 
ler  chattered,  chattered  without  pause.  He  talked 
about  the  factory,  about  their  business.  They  had 
gained  forty  thousand  francs  each  the  last  year;  but  it 
would  be  a  different  matter  when  the  Press  was  at 
work.  "A  rotary  press,  my  little  Frantz,  rotary  and 
dodecagonal,  capable  of  printing  a  pattern  in  twelve  to 
fifteen  colors  at  a  single  turn  of  the  wheel — red  on  pink, 
dark  green  on  light  green,  without  the  least  running 
together  or  absorption,  without  a  line  lapping  over  its 
neighbor,  without  any  danger  of  one  shade  destroying 
or  overshadowing  another.  Do  you  understand  that, 
little  brother?  A  machine  that  is  an  artist  like  a  man. 
It  means  a  revolution  in  the  wall-paper  trade." 

"But,"  queried  Frantz  with  some  anxiety,  "have  you 
invented  this  Press  of  yours  yet,  or  are  you  still  hunting 
for  it?" 

"  Invented ! — perfected !  To-morrow  I  will  show  you 
all  my  plans.  I  have  also  invented  an  automatic  crane 
for  hanging  the  paper  on  the  rods  in  the  drying-room. 
Next  week  I  intend  to  take  up  my  quarters  in  the  fac- 
tory, up  in  the  garret,  and  have  my  first  machine  made 
there  secretly,  under  my  own  eyes.  In  three  months 
the  patents  must  be  taken  out  and  the  Press  must  be 
at  work.  You'll  see,  my  little  Frantz,  it  will  make  us 
all  rich — you  can  imagine  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  be  able 
to  make  up  to  these  Fromonts  for  a  little  of  what  they 
12  [177] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

have  done  for  me.  Ah!  upon  my  word,  the  Lord  has 
been  too  good  to  me." 

Thereupon  he  began  to  enumerate  all  his  blessings. 
Sidonie  was  the  best  of  women,  a  little  love  of  a  wife, 
who  conferred  much  honor  upon  him.  They  had  a 
charming  home.  They  went  into  society,  very  select 
society.  The  little  one  sang  like  a  nightingale,  thanks 
to  Madame  Dobson's  expressive  method.  By  the  way, 
this  Madame  Dobson  was  another  most  excellent  crea- 
ture. There  was  just  one  thing  that  disturbed  poor 
Risler,  that  was  his  incomprehensible  misunderstand- 
ing with  Sigismond.  Perhaps  Frantz  could  help  him 
to  clear  up  that  mystery. 

"Oh!  yes,  I  will  help  you,  brother,"  replied  Frantz 
through  his  clenched  teeth;  and  an  angry  flush  rose  to 
his  brow  at  the  idea  that  any  one  could  have  suspected 
the  open-heartedness,  the  loyalty,  that  were  displayed 
before  him  in  all  their  artless  spontaneity.  Luckily  he, 
the  judge,  had  arrived;  and  he  proposed  to  restore 
everything  to  its  proper  place. 

Meanwhile,  they  were  drawing  near  the  house  at 
Asnieres.  Frantz  had  noticed  at  a  distance  a  fanciful 
little  turreted  affair,  glistening  with  a  new  blue  slate 
roof.  It  seemed  to  him  to  have  been  built  expressly 
for  Sidonie,  a  fitting  cage  for  that  capricious,  gaudy- 
plumaged  bird. 

It  was  a  chalet  with  two  stories,  whose  bright  mir- 
rors and  pink-lined  curtains  could  be  seen  from  the 
railway,  shining  resplendent  at  the  far  end  of  a  green 
lawn,  where  an  enormous  pewter  ball  was  suspended. 

The  river  was  near  at  hand,  still  wearing  its  Parisian 
[178I 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

aspect,  filled  with  chains,  bathing  establishments,  great 
barges,  and  multitudes  of  little  skiffs,  with  a  layer  of 
coal-dust  on  their  pretentious,  freshly-painted  names, 
tied  to  the  pier  and  rocking  to  the  slightest  motion  of 
the  water.  From  her  windows  Sidonie  could  see  the 
restaurants  on  the  beach,  silent  through  the  week,  but 
filled  to  overflowing  on  Sunday  with  a  motley,  noisy 
crowd,  whose  shouts  of  laughter,  mingled  with  the  dull 
splash  of  oars,  came  from  both  banks  to  meet  in  mid- 
stream in  that  current  of  vague  murmurs,  shouts,  calls, 
laughter,  and  singing  that  floats  without  ceasing  up 
and  down  the  Seine  on  holidays  for  a  distance  of  ten 
miles. 

During  the  week  she  saw  shabbily-dressed  idlers 
sauntering  along  the  shore,  men  in  broad-brimmed 
straw  hats  and  flannel  shirts,  women  who  sat  on  the 
worn  grass  of  the  sloping  bank,  doing  nothing,  with  the 
dreamy  eyes  of  a  cow  at  pasture.  All  the  peddlers,  hand- 
organs,  harpists,  travelling  jugglers,  stopped  there  as  at 
a  quarantine  station.  The  quay  was  crowded  with 
them,  and  as  they  approached,  the  windows  in  the  little 
houses  near  by  were  always  thrown  open,  disclosing 
white  dressing-jackets,  half- buttoned,  heads  of  dis- 
hevelled hair,  and  an  occasional  pipe,  all  watching 
these  paltry  strolling  shows,  as  if  with  a  sigh  of  regret 
for  Paris,  so  near  at  hand.  It  was  a  hideous  and  de- 
pressing sight. 

The  grass,  which  had  hardly  begun  to  grow,  was 
already  turning  yellow  beneath  the  feet  of  the  crowd. 
The  dust  was  black;  and  yet,  every  Thursday,  the 
cocotte  aristocracy  passed  through  on  the  way  to  the 

[179] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Casino,  with  a  great  show  of  rickety  carriages  and  bor- 
rowed postilions.  All  these  things  gave  pleasure  to 
that  fanatical  Parisian,  Sidonie;  and  then,  too,  in  her 
childhood,  she  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  Asnieres 
from  the  illustrious  Delobelle,  who  would  have  liked  to 
have,  like  so  many  of  his  profession,  a  little  villa  in 
those  latitudes,  a  cozy  nook  in  the  country  to  which  to 
return  by  the  midnight  train,  after  the  play  is  done. 

All  these  dreams  of  little  Chebe,  Sidonie  Risler  had 
realized. 

The  brothers  went  to  the  gate  opening  on  the  quay, 
in  which  the  key  was  usually  left.  They  entered,  mak- 
ing their  way  among  trees  and  shrubs  of  recent  growth. 
Here  and  there  the  billiard-room,  the  gardener's  lodge, 
a  little  greenhouse,  made  their  appearance,  like  the 
pieces  of  one  of  the  Swiss  chalets  we  give  to  children 
to  play  with;  all  very  light  and  fragile,  hardly  more 
than  resting  on  the  ground,  as  if  ready  to  fly  away  at 
the  slightest  breath  of  bankruptcy  or  caprice:  the  villa 
of  a  cocotte  or  a  pawnbroker. 

Frantz  looked  about  in  some  bewilderment.  In  the 
distance,  opening  on  a  porch  surrounded  by  vases  of 
flowers,  was  the  salon  with  its  long  blinds  raised.  An 
American  easy-chair,  folding-chairs,  a  small  table  from 
which  the  coffee  had  not  been  removed,  could  be  seen 
near  the  door.  Within  they  heard  a  succession  of  loud 
chords  on  the  piano  and  the  murmur  of  low  voices. 

"I  tell  you  Sidonie  will  be  surprised,"  said  honest 
Risler,  walking  softly  on  the  gravel ;  "she  doesn't  expect 
me  until  to-night.  She  and  Madame  Dobson  are  prac- 
tising together  at  this  moment." 

[i8o] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Pushing  the  door  open  suddenly,  he  cried  from  the 
threshold  in  his  loud,  good-natured  voice: 

"Guess  whom  I've  brought." 

Madame  Dobson,  who  was  sitting  alone  at  the  piano, 
jumped  up  from  her  stool,  and  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
grand  salon  Georges  and  Sidonie  rose  hastily  behind 
the  exotic  plants  that  reared  their  heads  above  a  table, 
of  whose  delicate,  slender  lines  they  seemed  a  prolonga- 
tion. 

"Ah!  how  you  frightened  me!"  said  Sidonie,  running 
to  meet  Risler. 

The  flounces  of  her  white  peignoir,  through  which 
blue  ribbons  were  drawn,  like  little  patches  of  blue  sky 
among  the  clouds,  rolled  in  billows  over  the  carpet, 
and,  having  already  recovered  from  her  embarrassment, 
she  stood  very  straight,  with  an  affable  expression  and 
her  everlasting  little  smile,  as  she  kissed  her  husband 
and  offered  her  forehead  to  Frantz,  saying: 

"Good  morning,  brother." 

Risler  left  them  confronting  each  other,  and  went  up 
to  Fromont  Jeune,  whom  he  was  greatly  surprised  to 
find  there. 

"What,  Chorche,  you  here?  I  supposed  you  were 
at  Savigny." 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  but — I  came — I  thought  you 
stayed  at  Asnieres  Sundays.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
on  a  matter  of  business." 

Thereupon,  entangling  himself  in  his  words,  he  be- 
gan to  talk  hurriedly  of  an  important  order.  Sidonie 
had  disappeared  after  exchanging  a  few  unmeaning 
words  with  the  impassive  Frantz.     Madame  Dobson 

[  i8i  ] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

continued  her  tremolos  on  the  soft  pedal,  like  those 
which  accompany  critical  situations  at  the  theatre. 

In  very  truth,  the  situation  at  that  moment  was  de- 
cidedly strained.  But  Risler's  good-humor  banished 
all  constraint.  He  apologized  to  his  partner  for  not 
being  at  home,  and  insisted  upon  showing  Frantz  the 
house.  They  went  from  the  salon  to  the  stable,  from 
the  stable  to  the  carriage-house,  the  servants'  quarters, 
and  the  conservatory.  Everything  was  new,  brilliant, 
gleaming,  too  small,  and  inconvenient. 

"But,"  said  Risler,  with  a  certain  pride,  "it  cost  a 
heap  of  money!" 

He  persisted  in  compelling  admiration  of  Sidonie's 
purchase  even  to  its  smallest  details,  exhibited  the  gas 
and  water  fixtures  on  every  floor,  the  improved  system 
of  bells,  the  garden  seats,  the  English  billiard-table, 
the  hydropathic  arrangements,  and  accompanied  his 
exposition  with  outbursts  of  gratitude  to  Fromont 
Jeune,  who,  by  taking  him  into  partnership,  had  lit- 
erally placed  a  fortune  in  his  hands. 

At  each  new  effusion  on  Risler's  part,  Georges  Fro- 
mont shrank  visibly,  ashamed  and  embarrassed  by  the 
strange  expression  on  Frantz's  face. 

The  breakfast  was  lacking  in  gayety. 

Madame  Dobson  talked  almost  without  interruption, 
overjoyed  to  be  swimming  in  the  shallows  of  a  romantic 
love-affair.  Knowing,  or  rather  believing  that  she  knew 
her  friend's  story  from  beginning  to  end,  she  under- 
stood the  lowering  wrath  of  Frantz,  a  former  lover 
furious  at  finding  his  place  filled,  and  the  anxiety  of 
Georges,  due  to  the  appearance  of  a  rival ;  and  she  en- 

[182] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

couraged  one  with  a  glance,  consoled  the  other  with  d, 
smile,  admired  Sidonie's  tranquil  demeanor,  and  re- 
served all  her  contempt  for  that  abominable  Risler,  the 
vulgar,  uncivilized  tyrant.  She  made  an  effort  to  pre- 
vent any  of  those  horrible  periods  of  silence,  when  the 
clashing  knives  and  forks  mark  time  in  such  an  absurd 
and  embarrassing  way. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  at  an  end  Fromont  Jeune 
announced  that  he  must  return  to  Savigny.  Risler 
did  not  venture  to  detain  him,  thinking  that  his  dear 
Madame  Chorche  would  pass  her  Sunday  all  alone; 
and  so,  without  an  opportunity  to  say  a  word  to 
his  mistress,  the  lover  went  away  in  the  bright  sunlight 
to  take  an  afternoon  train,  still  attended  by  the  hus- 
band, who  insisted  upon  escorting  him  to  the  station. 

Madame  Dobson  sat  for  a  moment  with  Frantz  and 
Sidonie  under  a  little  arbor  which  a  climbing  vine 
studded  with  pink  buds;  then,  realizing  that  she  was 
in  the  way,  she  returned  to  the  salon,  and  as  before, 
while  Georges  was  there,  began  to  play  and  sing  softly 
and  with  expression.  In  the  silent  garden,  that  muffled 
music,  gliding  between  the  branches,  seemed  like  the 
cooing  of  birds  before  the  storm. 

At  last  they  were  alone.  Under  the  lattice  of  the 
arbor,  still  bare  and  leafless,  the  May  sun  shone  too 
bright.  Sidonie  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand  as  she 
watched  the  people  passing  on  the  quay.  Frantz  like- 
wise looked  out,  but  in  another  direction;  and  both  of 
them,  affecting  to  be  entirely  independent  of  each 
other,  turned  at  the  same  instant  with  the  same  gesture 
and  moved  by  the  same  thought. 

[183] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  he  said,  just  as 
she  opened  her  mouth. 

"And  I  to  you,"  she  repHed  gravely;  "but  come  in 
here;  we  shall  be  more  comfortable." 

And  they  entered  together  a  little  summer-house  at 
the  foot  of  the  garden. 


[184] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

EXPLANATION 

Y  slow  degrees  Sidonie  sank  to  her 
former  level,  yes,  even  lower.  From 
the  rich,  well-considered  bourgeoise 
to  which  her  marriage  had  raised  her, 
she  descended  the  ladder  to  the  rank 
of  a  mere  toy.  By  dint  of  travelling 
in  railway  carriages  with  fantastically 
dressed  courtesans,  with  their  hair 
worn  over  their  eyes  like  a  terrier's,  or  falling  over  the 
back  a  la  Genevieve  de  Brabant,  she  came  at  last  to 
resemble  them.  She  transformed  herself  into  a  blonde 
for  two  months,  to  the  unbounded  amazement  of 
Risler,  who  could  not  understand  how  his  doll  was 
so  changed.  As  for  Georges,  all  these  eccentricities 
amused  him;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  ten  women 
in  one.  He  was  the  real  husband,  the  master  of  the 
house. 

To  divert  Sidonie's  thoughts,  he  had  provided  a 
simulacrum  of  society  for  her — his  bachelor  friends,  a 
few  fast  tradesmen,  almost  no  women,  women  have 
too  sharp  eyes.  Madame  Dobson  was  the  only  friend 
of  Sidonie's  sex. 

They  organized  grand  dinner-parties,  excursions  on 
the  water,  fireworks.    From  day  to  day  Risler's  posi- 

[185] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

tion  became  more  absurd,  more  distressing.  When  he 
came  home  in  the  evening,  tired  out,  shabbily  dressed, 
he  must  hurry  up  to  his  room  to  dress. 

"We  have  some  people  to  dinner,"  his  wife  would 
say.     "Make  haste." 

And  he  would  be  the  last  to  take  his  place  at  the 
table,  after  shaking  hands  all  around  with  his  guests, 
friends  of  Fromont  Jeune,  whom  he  hardly  knew  by 
name.  Strange  to  say,  the  affairs  of  the  factory  were 
often  discussed  at  that  table,  to  which  Georges  brought 
his  acquaintances  from  the  club  with  the  tranquil  self- 
assurance  of  the  gentleman  who  pays. 

"Business  breakfasts  and  dinners!"  To  Risler's 
mind  that  phrase  explained  everything:  his  partner's 
constant  presence,  his  choice  of  guests,  and  the  marvel- 
lous gowns  worn  by  Sidonie,  who  beautified  herself  in 
the  interests  of  the  firm.  This  coquetry  on  his  mis- 
tress's part  drove  Fromont  Jeune  to  despair.  Day 
after  day  he  came  unexpectedly  to  take  her  by  surprise, 
uneasy,  suspicious,  afraid  to  leave  that  perverse  and 
deceitful  character  to  its  own  devices  for  long. 

"What  in  the  deuce  has  become  of  your  husband?" 
Pere  Gardinois  would  ask  his  grand-daughter  with  a 
cunning  leer.     "Why  doesn't  he  come  here  oftener?" 

Claire  apologized  for  Georges,  but  his  continual  neg- 
lect began  to  disturb  her.  She  wept  now  when  she 
received  the  little  notes,  the  despatches  which  arrived 
daily  at  the  dinner-hour:  "Don't  expect  me  to-night, 
dear  love.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  come  to  Savigny  until 
to-morrow  or  the  day  after  by  the  night-train." 

She  ate  her  dinner  sadly,  opposite  an  empty  chair, 
[i86] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

and  although  she  did  not  know  that  she  was  betrayed, 
she  felt  that  her  husband  was  becoming  accustomed  to 
living  away  from  her.  He  was  so  absent-minded  when 
a  family  gathering  or  some  other  unavoidable  duty  de- 
tained him  at  the  chateau,  so  silent  concerning  what 
was  in  his  mind.  Claire,  having  now  only  the  most 
distant  relations  with  Sidonie,  knew  nothing  of  what 
was  taking  place  at  Asnieres:  but  when  Georges  left 
her,  apparently  eager  to  be  gone,  and  with  smiling  face, 
she  tormented  her  loneliness  with  unavowed  suspicions, 
and,  like  all  those  who  anticipate  a  great  sorrow,  she 
suddenly  became  conscious  of  a  great  void  in  her  heart, 
a  place  made  ready  for  disasters  to  come. 

Her  husband  was  hardly  happier  than  she.  That 
cruel  Sidonie  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  tormenting 
him.  She  allowed  everybody  to  pay  court  to  her. 
At  that  moment  a  certain  Cazabon,  alias  Cazaboni,  an 
Italian  tenor  from  Toulouse,  introduced  by  Madame 
Dobson,  came  every  day  to  sing  disturbing  duets. 
Georges,  jealous  beyond  words,  hurried  to  Asnieres  in 
the  afternoon,  neglecting  everything,  and  was  already 
beginning  to  think  that  Risler  did  not  watch  his  wife 
closely  enough.  He  would  have  liked  him  to  be  blind 
only  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

Ah!  if  he  had  been  her  husband,  what  a  tight  rein 
he  would  have  kept  on  her !  But  he  had  no  power  over 
her  and  she  was  not  at  all  backv/ard  about  telling  him 
50.  Sometimes,  too,  with  the  invincible  logic  that  often 
occurs  to  the  greatest  fools,  he  reflected  that,  as  he  was 
deceiving  his  friend,  perhaps  he  deserved  to  be  de- 
ceived.   In  short,  his  was  a  wTetched  life.    He  passed 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

his  time  running  about  to  jewellers  and  dry-goods 
dealers,  inventing  gifts  and  surprises.  Ah!  he  knew 
her  well.  He  knew  that  he  could  pacify  her  with 
trinkets,  yet  not  retain  his  hold  upon  her,  and  that, 
when  the  day  came  that  she  was  bored 

But  Sidonie  was  not  bored  as  yet.  She  was  living 
the  life  that  she  longed  to  live;  she  had  all  the  happi- 
ness she  could  hope  to  attain.  There  was  nothing 
passionate  or  romantic  about  her  feeling  for  Georges. 
He  was  like  a  second  husband  to  her,  younger  and, 
above  all,  richer  than  the  other.  To  complete  the 
vulgarization  of  their  lidison,  she  had  summoned  her 
parents  to  Asnieres,  lodged  them  in  a  little  house  in  the 
country,  and  made  of  that  vain  and  wilfully  blind 
father  and  that  affectionate,  still  bewildered  mother  a 
halo  of  respectability  of  which  she  felt  the  necessity  as 
she  sank  lower  and  lower. 

Everything  was  shrewdly  planned  in  that  perverse 
little  brain,  which  reflected  coolly  upon  vice;  and  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  she  might  continue  to  live  thus  in 
peace,  when  Frantz  Risler  suddenly  arrived. 

Simply  from  seeing  him  enter  the  room,  she  had  re- 
alized that  her  repose  was  threatened,  that  an  inter- 
view of  the  gravest  importance  was  to  take  place  be- 
tween them. 

Her  plan  was  formed  on  the  instant.  She  must  at 
once  put  it  into  execution. 

The  summer-house  that  they  entered  contained  one 
large,  circular  room  with  four  windows,  each  looking 
out  upon  a  different  landscape;  it  was  furnished  for  the 

[i88] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

purposes  of  summer  siestas,  for  the  hot  hours  when 
one  seeks  shelter  from  the  sunlight  and  the  noises  of 
the  garden.  A  broad,  very  low  divan  ran  all  around 
the  wall.  A  small  lacquered  table,  also  very  low, 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  covered  with  odd 
numbers  of  society  journals. 

The  hangings  were  new,  and  the  Persian  pattern — 
birds  flying  among  bluish  reeds — produced  the  effect 
of  a  dream  in  summer,  ethereal  figures  floating  before 
one's  languid  eyes.  The  lowered  blinds,  the  matting 
on  the  floor,  the  Virginia  jasmine  clinging  to  the  trellis- 
work  outside,  produced  a  refreshing  coolness  which 
was  enhanced  by  the  splashing  in  the  river  near  by, 
and  the  lapping  of  its  wavelets  on  the  shore. 

Sidonie  sat  down  as  soon  as  she  entered  the  room, 
pushing  aside  her  long  white  skirt,  which  sank  like  a 
mass  of  snow  at  the  foot  of  the  divan;  and  with  spark- 
ling eyes  and  a  smile  playing  about  her  lips,  bending 
her  little  head  slightly,  its  saucy  coquettishness 
heightened  by  the  bow  of  ribbon  on  the  side,  she 
waited. 

Frantz,  pale  as  death,  remained  standing,  looking 
about  the  room.     After  a  moment  he  began : 

"I  congratulate  you,  Madame;  you  understand  how 
to  make  yourself  comfortable." 

And  in  the  next  breath,  as  if  he  were  afraid  that  the 
conversation,  beginning  at  such  a  distance,  would  not 
arrive  quickly  enough  at  the  point  to  which  he  intended 
to  lead  it,  he  added  brutally: 

"To  whom  do  you  owe  this  magnificence,  to  your 
lover  or  your  husband?" 

[189  J 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Without  moving  from  the  divan,  without  even  rais- 
ing her  eyes  to  his,  she  answered : 

"To  both." 

He  was  a  little  disconcerted  by  such  self-possession. 

"Then  you  confess  that  that  man  is  your  lover?" 

"Confess  it!— yes!" 

Frantz  gazed  at  her  a  moment  without  speaking. 
She,  too,  had  turned  pale,  notwithstanding  her  calm- 
ness, and  the  eternal  little  smile  no  longer  quivered  at 
the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

He  continued: 

"Listen  to  me,  Sidonie!  My  brother's  name,  the 
name  he  gave  his  wife,  is  mine  as  well.  Since  Risler 
is  so  foolish,  so  blind  as  to  allow  the  name  to  be  dis- 
honored by  you,  it  is  my  place  to  defend  it  against 
your  attacks.  I  beg  you,  therefore,  to  inform  Mon- 
sieur Georges  Fromont  that  he  must  change  mistresses 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  go  elsewhere  to  ruin  himself. 
If  not " 

"If  not?"  queried  Sidonie,  who  had  not  ceased  to 
play  with  her  rings  while  he  was  speaking. 

"If  not,  I  shall  tell  my  brother  what  is  going  on  in 
his  house,  and  you  will  be  surprised  at  the  Risler  whose 
acquaintance  you  will  make  then — a  man  as  violent 
and  ungovernable  as  he  usually  is  inoffensive.  My 
disclosure  will  kill  him  perhaps,  but  you  can  be  sure 
that  he  will  kill  you  first." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Very  well!  let  him  kill  me.  What  do  I  care  for 
that?" 

This  was  said  with  such  a  heartbroken,  despondent 
[190] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

air  that  Frantz,  in  spite  of  himself,  felt  a  little  pity  for 
that  beautiful,  fortunate  young  creature,  who  talked  of 
dying  with  such  self-abandonment. 

"Do  you  love  him  so  dearly?"  he  said,  in  an  inde- 
finably milder  tone.  "Do  you  love  this  Fromont  so 
dearly  that  you  prefer  to  die  rather  than  renounce 
him?" 

She  drew  herself  up  hastily. 

"I?  Love  that  fop,  that  doll,  that  silly  girl  in  men's 
clothes?  Nonsense! — I  took  him  as  I  would  have 
taken  any  other  man." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  couldn't  help  it,  because  I  was  mad, 
because  I  had  and  still  have  in  my  heart  a  criminal 
love,  which  I  am  determined  to  tear  out,  no  matter  at 
what  cost." 

She  had  risen  and  was  speaking  with  her  eyes  in  his, 
her  lips  near  his,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

A  criminal  love? — ^Whom  did  she  love,  in  God's 
name? 

Frantz  was  afraid  to  question  her. 

Although  suspecting  nothing  as  yet,  he  had  a  feeling 
that  that  glance,  that  breath,  leaning  toward  him,  were 
about  to  make  some  horrible  disclosure. 

But  his  ofl5ce  of  judge  made  it  necessary  for  him  to 
know  all. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked. 

She  replied  in  a  stifled  voice: 

"You  know  very  well  that  it  is  you." 

She  was  his  brother's  wife. 

For  two  years  he  had  not  thought  of  her  except  as 
[■9'] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

a  sister.  In  his  eyes  his  brother's  wife  in  no  way  re- 
sembled his  former  fiancee,  and  it  would  have  been  a 
crime  to  recognize  in  a  single  feature  of  her  face  the 
woman  to  whom  he  had  formerly  so  often  said,  "I 
love  you." 

And  now  it  was  she  who  said  that  she  loved  him. 

The  unhappy  judge  was  thunderstruck,  dazed,  could 
find  no  words  in  which  to  reply. 

She,  standing  before  him,  waited. 

It  was  one  of  those  spring  days,  full  of  heat  and 
light,  to  which  the  moisture  of  recent  rains  imparts  a 
strange  softness  and  melancholy.  The  air  was  warm, 
perfumed  by  fresh  flowers  which,  on  that  first  day  of 
heat,  gave  forth  their  fragrance  eagerly,  like  violets 
hidden  in  a  muff.  Through  its  long,  open  windows  the 
room  in  which  they  were  inhaled  all  those  intoxicating 
odors.  Outside,  they  could  hear  the  Sunday  organs, 
distant  shouts  on  the  river,  and  nearer  at  hand,  in  the 
garden,  Madame  Dobson's  amorous,  languishing  voice, 
sighing: 

"On  dit  que  tu  te  maries  ; 
Tu  sais  que  j'en  puis  mourl-i-i-r!" 

"Yes,  Frantz,  I  have  always  loved  you,"  said  Sidonie. 
"That  love  which  I  renounced  long  ago  because  I  was 
a  young  girl — and  young  girls  do  not  know  what  they 
are  doing — that  love  nothing  has  ever  succeeded  in 
destroying  or  lessening.  When  I  learned  that  D^sir^e 
also  loved  you,  the  unfortunate,  penniless  child,  in  a 
great  outburst  of  generosity  I  determined  to  assure  her 
happiness  for  life  by  sacrificing  my  own,  and  I  at  once 

[  192  ] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

turned  you  away,  so  that  you  should  go  to  her.  Ah! 
as  soon  as  you  had  gone,  I  realized  that  the  sacrifice 
was  beyond  my  strength.  Poor  little  Desiree !  How  I 
cursed  her  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart!  Will  you  be- 
lieve it?  Since  that  time  I  have  avoided  seeing  her, 
meeting  her.  The  sight  of  her  caused  me  too  much 
pain." 

"But  if  you  loved  me,"  asked  Frantz,  in  a  low  voice, 
"if  you  loved  me,  why  did  you  marry  my  brother?" 

She  did  not  waver. 

"To  marry  Risler  was  to  bring  myself  nearer  to  you. 
I  said  to  myself:  'I  could  not  be  his  wife.  Very  well, 
I  will  be  his  sister.  At  all  events,  in  that  way  it  will 
still  be  allowable  for  me  to  love  him,  and  we  shall  not 
pass  our  whole  lives  as  strangers.'  Alas!  those  are  the 
innocent  dreams  a  girl  has  at  twenty,  dreams  of  which 
she  very  soon  learns  the  impossibility.  I  could  not 
love  you  as  a  sister,  Frantz;  I  could  not  forget  you, 
either;  my  marriage  prevented  that.  With  another 
husband  I  might  perhaps  have  succeeded,  but  with 
Risler  it  was  terrible.  He  was  forever  talking  about 
you  and  your  success  and  your  future — Frantz  said 
this;  Frantz  did  that —  He  loves  you  so  well,  poor  fel- 
low !  And  then  the  most  cruel  thing  to  me  is  that  your 
brother  looks  like  you.  There  is  a  sort  of  family  re- 
semblance in  your  features,  in  your  gait,  in  your  voices 
especially,  for  I  have  often  closed  my  eyes  under  his 
caresses,  saying  to  myself,  'It  is  he,  it  is  Frantz.'  When 
I  saw  that  that  wicked  thought  was  becoming  a  source 
of  torment  to  me,  something  that  I  could  not  escape, 
I  tried  to  find  distraction,  I  consented  to  listen  to  this 
13  [  193  ] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Georges,  who  had  been  pestering  me  for  a  long  time, 
to  transform  my  life  to  one  of  noise  and  excitement. 
But  I  swear  to  you,  Frantz,  that  in  that  whirlpool  of 
pleasure  into  which  I  then  plunged,  I  never  have  ceased 
to  think  of  you,  and  if  any  one  had  a  right  to  come 
here  and  call  me  to  account  for  my  conduct,  you  cer- 
tainly are  not  the  one,  for  you,  unintentionally,  have 
made  me  what  I  am." 

She  paused.  Frantz  dared  not  raise  his  eyes  to  her 
face.  For  a  moment  past  she  had  seemed  to  him  too 
lovely,  too  alluring.     She  was  his  brother's  wife ! 

Nor  did  he  dare  speak.  The  unfortunate  youth  felt 
that  the  old  passion  was  despotically  taking  possession 
of  his  heart  once  more,  and  that  at  that  moment  glances, 
words,  everything  that  burst  forth  from  it  would  be 
love. 

And  she  was  his  brother's  wife! 

"Ah!  wretched,  wretched  creatures  that  we  are!" 
exclaimed  the  poor  judge,  dropping  upon  the  divan 
beside  her. 

Those  few  words  were  in  themselves  an  act  of 
cowardice,  a  beginning  of  surrender,  as  if  destiny,  by 
showing  itself  so  pitiless,  had  deprived  him  of  the 
strength  to  defend  himself.  Sidonie  had  placed  her 
hand  on  his.  "Frantz — Frantz!"  she  said;  and  they 
remained  there  side  by  side,  silent  and  burning  with 
emotion,  soothed  by  Madame  Dobson's  romance,  which 
reached  their  ears  by  snatches  through  the  shrubbery: 

**Ton  amour,  c'est  ma  jolie. 
^(las  /  je  n'en  puis  guSri-i-i-r" 


FROMONT  AND  RISLEK 

Suddenly  Risler's  tall  figure  appeared  in  the  door- 
way. 

"This  way,  Chebe,  this  way.  They  are  in  the  sum- 
mer-house." 

As  he  spoke  the  husband  entered,  escorting  his 
father-in-law  and  mother-in-law,  whom  he  had  gone 
to  fetch. 

There  was  a  moment  of  effusive  greetings  and  in- 
numerable embraces.  You  should  have  seen  the 
patronizing  air  with  which  M.  Chebe  scrutinized 
the  young  man,  who  was  head  and  shoulders  taller 
than  he. 

"Well,  my  boy,  does  the  Suez  Canal  progress  as  you 
would  wish?" 

Madame  Chebe,  in  whose  thoughts  Frantz  had  never 
ceased  to  be  her  future  son-in-law,  threw  her  arms 
around  him,  while  Risler,  tactless  as  usual  in  his  gayety 
and  his  enthusiasm,  waved  his  arms,  talked  of  killing 
several  fatted  calves  to  celebrate  the  return  of  the 
prodigal  son,  and  roared  to  the  singing-mistress  in 
a  voice  that  echoed  through  the  neighboring  gar- 
dens: 

•  "  Madame  Dobson,  Madame  Dobson — if  you'll  allow 
me,  it's  a  pity  for  you  to  be  singing  there.  To  the  devil 
with  sadness  for  to-day!  Play  us  something  lively,  a 
good  waltz,  so  that  I  can  take  a  turn  with  Madame 
Ch^be." 

"Risler,  Risler,  are  you  crazy,  my  son-in-law?" 

"Come,  come,  mamma!    We  must  dance." 

And  up  and  down  the  paths,  to  the  strains  of  an 
automatic  six-step  waltz — a  genuine  vcUse  de  Vatican- 

[195] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

son —  he  dragged  his  breathless  mamma-in-law,  who 
stopped  at  every  step  to  restore  to  their  usual  orderli- 
ness the  dangling  ribbons  of  her  hat  and  the  lace  trim- 
ming of  her  shawl,  her  lovely  shawl  bought  for  Sidonie's 
wedding. 

Poor  Risler  was  intoxicated  with  joy. 

To  Frantz  that  was  an  endless,  indelible  day  of 
agony.  Driving,  rowing  on  the  river,  lunch  on  the 
grass  on  the  He  des  Ravageurs — he  was  spared  none 
of  the  charms  of  Asnieres;  and  all  the  time,  in  the 
dazzling  sunlight  of  the  roads,  in  the  glare  reflected  by 
the  water,  he  must  laugh  and  chatter,  describe  his 
journey,  talk  of  the  Isthmus  of  Suez  and  the  great  work 
undertaken  there,  listen  to  the  whispered  complaints  of 
M.  Chebe,  who  was  still  incensed  with  his  children,  and 
to  his  brother's  description  of  the  Press.  "Rotary,  my 
dear  Frantz,  rotary  and  dodecagonal ! "  Sidonie  left 
the  gentlemen  to  their  conversation  and  seemed  ab- 
sorbed in  deep  thought.  From  time  to  time  she  said 
a  word  or  two  to  Madame  Dobson,  or  smiled  sadly  at 
her,  and  Frantz,  not  daring  to  look  at  her,  followed  the 
motions  of  her  blue-lined  parasol  and  of  the  white 
flounces  of  her  skirt. 

How  she  had  changed  in  two  years!  How  lovely  she 
had  grown! 

Then  horrible  thoughts  came  to  his  mind.  There 
were  races  at  Longchamps  that  day.  Carriages  passed 
theirs,  rubbed  against  it,  driven  by  women  with  painted 
faces,  closely  veiled.  Sitting  motionless  on  the  box, 
they  held  their  long  whips  straight  in  the  air,  with  doll- 
like gestures,  and  nothing  about  them  seemed  alive 

[196] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

except  their  blackened  eyes,  fixed  on  the  horses'  heads. 
As  they  passed,  people  turned  to  look.  Every  eye  fol- 
lowed them,  as  if  drawn  by  the  wind  caused  by  their 
rapid  motion. 

Sidonie  resembled  those  creatures.  She  might  her- 
self have  driven  Georges'  carriage ;  for  Frantz  v/as  in 
Georges'  carriage.  He  had  drunk  Georges'  wine. 
All  the  luxurious  enjoyment  of  that  family  party  came 
from  Georges. 

It  was  shameful,  revolting!  He  would  have  liked 
to  shout  the  whole  story  to  his  brother.  Indeed,  it 
was  his  duty,  as  he  had  come  there  for  that  express 
purpose.  But  he  no  longer  felt  the  courage  to  do  it. 
Ah!  the  unhappy  judge! 

That  evening  after  dinner,  in  the  salon  open  to  the 
fresh  breeze  from  the  river,  Risler  begged  his  wife  to 
sing.  He  wished  her  to  exhibit  all  her  newly  acquired 
accomplishments  to  Frantz. 

Sidonie,  leaning  on  the  piano,  objected  with  a  melan- 
choly air,  while  Madame  Dobson  ran  her  fingers  over 
the  keys,  shaking  her  long  curls. 

"But  I  don't  know  anything.  What  do  you  wish 
me  to  sing?" 

She  ended,  however,  by  being  persuaded.  Pale,  dis- 
enchanted, with  her  mind  upon  other  things,  in  the 
flickering  light  of  the  candles  which  seemed  to  be 
burning  incense,  the  air  was  so  heavy  with  the  odor  of 
the  hyacinths  and  lilacs  in  the  garden,  she  began  a 
Creole  ballad  very  popular  in  Louisiana,  which  Ma- 
dame Dobson  herself  had  arranged  for  the  voice  and 
piano : 

[197I 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"Pauv'  pitit  Mam^zelle  Zizi, 

C'est  Pamou,  I'amou  qui  tourne  la  tete  h  li."  * 

And  as  she  told  the  story  of  the  ill-fated  little  Zizi,  who 
was  driven  mad  by  passion,  Sidonie  had  the  appear- 
ance of  a  love-sick  woman.  With  what  heartrending 
expression,  with  the  cry  of  a  wounded  dove,  did  she 
repeat  that  refrain,  so  melancholy  and  so  sweet,  in 
the  childlike  patois  of  the  colonies: 

^^C'est  I'amou,  Pamou  qui  tourne  la  tete  d  It." 

It  was  enough  to  drive  the  unlucky  judge  mad  as 
well. 

But  no!  The  siren  had  been  unfortunate  in  her 
choice  of  a  ballad.  For,  at  the  mere  name  of  Mam'- 
zelle  Zizi,  Frantz  was  suddenly  transported  to  a  gloomy 
chamber  in  the  Marais,  a  long  way  from  Sidonie's 
salon,  and  his  compassionate  heart  evoked  the  image 
of  little  Desiree  Delobelle,  who  had  loved  him  so  long. 
Until  she  was  fifteen,  she  never  had  been  called  any- 
thing but  Ziree  or  Zizi,  and  she  was  the  pauv''  pitit  of 
the  Creole  ballad  to  the  life,  the  ever-neglected,  ever- 
faithful  lover.  In  vain  now  did  the  other  sing.  Frantz 
no  longer  heard  her  or  saw  her.  He  was  in  that  poor 
room,  beside  the  great  armchair,  on  the  little  low  chair 
on  which  he  had  sat  so  often  awaiting  the  father's  return. 
Yes,  there,  and  there  only,  was  his  salvation.  He  must 
take  refuge  in  that  child's  love,  throw  himself  at  her 
feet,  say  to  her,    "Take  me,  save  me!"    And  who 

•"  Poor  little  Mam'zelle  Zizi, 

'Tis  love,  'tis  love  that  turns  her  head." 

[198] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

knows?    She  loved  him  so  dearly.    Perhaps  she  would 
save  him,  would  cure  him  of  his  guilty  passion. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Risler,  seeing  that 
his  brother  rose  hurriedly  as  soon  as  the  last  flourish 
was  at  an  end. 

"I  am  going  back.    It  is  late." 

"What?  You  are  not  going  to  sleep  here?  Why 
your  room  is  ready  for  you." 

"It  is  all  ready,"  added  Sidonie,  with  a  meaning 
glance. 

He  refused  resolutely.  His  presence  in  Paris  was 
necessary  for  the  fulfilment  of  certain  very  important 
commissions  intrusted  to  him  by  the  Company.  They 
continued  their  efforts  to  detain  him  when  he  was  in 
the  vestibule,  when  he  was  crossing  the  garden  in  the 
moonlight  and  running  to  the  station,  amid  all  the 
divers  noises  of  Asnieres. 

When  he  had  gone,  Risler  went  up  to  his  room,  leav- 
ing Sidonie  and  Madame  Dobson  at  the  windows  of 
the  salon.  The  music  from  the  neighboring  Casino 
reached  their  ears,  with  the  "Yo-ho!"  of  the  boatmen 
and  the  footsteps  of  the  dancers  like  a  rhythmical, 
muffled  drumming  on  the  tambourine. 

"There's  a  kifl-joy  for  you!"  observed  Madame 
Dobson. 

"Oh,  I  have  checkmated  him,"  replied  Sidonie; 
"only  I  must  be  careful.  I  shall  be  closely  watched 
now.  He  is  so  jealous.  I  am  going  to  write  to  Caza- 
boni  not  to  come  again  for  some  time,  and  you  must 
tell  Georges  to-morrow  morning  to  go  to  Savigny  for 
a  fortnight." 

[199] 


CHAPTER  XV 

POOR  LITTLE  MAM'zELLE  ZIZI 

H,  how  happy  D^siree  was! 

Frantz  came  every  day  and  sat  at 
her  feet  on  the  little  low  chair,  as  in 
the  good  old  days,  and  he  no  longer 
came  to  talk  of  Sidonie. 

As  soon  as  she  began  to  work  in  the 
morning,  she  would  see  the  door  open 
softly.  "Good  morning,  Mam'zelle 
Zizi."  He  always  called  her  now  by  the  name  she  had 
borne  as  a  child;  and  if  you  could  know  how  prettily 
he  said  it:  "Good  morning,  Mam'zelle  Zizi." 

In  the  evening  they  waited  for  "the  father"  together, 
and  while  she  worked  he  made  her  shudder  with  the 
story  of  his  adventures. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?  You're  not  the 
same  as  you  used  to  be,"  Mamma  Delobelle  would 
say,  surprised  to  see  her  in  such  high  spirits  and  above 
all  so  active.  For  instead  of  remaining  always  buried 
in  her  easy-chair,  with  the  self-renunciation  of  a  young 
grandmother,  the  little  creature  was  continually  jump- 
ing up  and  running  to  the  window  as  lightly  as  if  she 
were  putting  out  wings;  and  she  practised  standing 
erect,  asking  her  mother  in  a  whisper: 
"Do  you  notice  it  when  I  am  not  walking?" 

[  2CX)] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

From  her  graceful  little  head,  upon  which  she  had 
previously  concentrated  all  her  energies  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  her  hair,  her  coquetr}'  extended  over  her 
whole  person,  as  did  her  fine,  waving  tresses  when  she 
unloosed  them.  Yes,  she  was  very,  very  coquettish 
now;  and  everybody  noticed  it.  Even  the  "birds  and 
insects  for  ornament"  assumed  a  knowing  little  air. 

Ah,  yes!  Desiree  Delobelle  was  happy.  For  some 
days  M.  Frantz  had  been  talking  of  their  all  going  into 
the  country  together;  and  as  the  father,  kind  and 
generous  as  always,  graciously  consented  to  allow  the 
ladies  to  take  a  day's  rest,  all  four  set  out  one  Sunday 
morning. 

Oh!  the  lovely  drive,  the  lovely  country,  the  lovely 
river,  the  lovely  trees! 

Do  not  ask  her  where  they  went;  Desiree  never 
knew.  But  she  will  tell  you  that  the  sun  was  brighter 
there  than  anywhere  else,  the  birds  more  joyous,  the 
woods  denser;  and  she  will  not  lie. 

The  bouquet  that  the  little  cripple  brought  back 
from  that  beautiful  excursion  made  her  room  fragrant 
for  a  week.  Among  the  hyacinths,  the  violets,  the 
white-thorn,  was  a  multitude  of  nameless  little  flowers, 
those  flowers  of  the  lowly  which  grow  from  nomadic 
seed  scattered  everywhere  along  the  roads. 

Gazing  at  the  slender,  pale  blue  and  bright  pink 
blossoms,  with  all  the  delicate  shades  that  flowers 
invented  before  colorists,  many  and  many  a  time 
during  that  week  Desiree  took  her  excursion  again. 
The  violets  reminded  her  of  the  little  moss-covered 
mound  on  which  she  had  picked  them,  seeking  them 

[201] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

under  the  leaves,  her  fingers  touching  Frantz^s.  They 
had  found  these  great  water-Hlies  on  the  edge  of  a 
ditch,  still  damp  from  the  winter  rains,  and,  in  order 
to  reach  them,  she  had  leaned  very  heavily  on  Frantz's 
arm.  All  these  memories  occurred  to  her  as  she  worked. 
Meanwhile  the  sun,  shining  in  at  the  open  window, 
made  the  feathers  of  the  humming-birds  glisten.  The 
springtime,  youth,  the  songs  of  the  birds,  the  fragrance 
of  the  flowers,  transfigured  that  dismal  fifth-floor  work- 
room, and  Desiree  said  in  all  seriousness  to  Mamma 
Delobelle,  putting  her  nose  to  her  friend's  bouquet: 

"Have  you  noticed  how  sweet  the  flowers  smell  this 
year,  mamma?" 

And  Frantz,  too,  began  to  fall  under  the  charm. 
Little  by  little  Mam'zelle  Zizi  took  possession  of  his 
heart  and  banished  from  it  even  the  memory  of  Sidonie. 
To  be  sure,  the  poor  judge  did  all  that  he  could  to  ac- 
complish that  result.  At  every  hour  in  the  day  he  was 
by  Desiree's  side,  and  clung  to  her  like  a  child.  Not 
once  did  he  venture  to  return  to  Asnieres.  He  feared 
the  other  too  much. 

"Pray  come  and  see  us  once  in  a  while;  Sidonie 
keeps  asking  for  you,"  Risler  said  to  him  from  time  to 
time,  when  his  brother  came  to  the  factory  to  see  him. 
But  Frantz  held  firm,  alleging  all  sorts  of  business  en- 
gagements as  pretexts  for  postponing  his  visit  to  the 
next  day.  It  was  easy  to  satisfy  Risler,  who  was  more 
engrossed  than  ever  with  his  press,  which  they  had  just 
begun  to  build. 

Whenever  Frantz  came  down  from  his  brother's 
closet,  old  Sigismond  was  sure  to  be  watching  for  him, 

[202] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

and  would  walk  a  few  steps  with  him  in  his  long,  lute- 
string sleeves,  quill  and  knife  in  hand.  He  kept  the 
young  man  informed  concerning  matters  at  the  factory. 
For  some  time  past,  things  seemed  to  have  changed  for 
the  better.  Monsieur  Georges  came  to  his  office  regu- 
larly, and  returned  to  Savigny  every  night.  No  more 
bills  were  presented  at  the  counting-room.  It  seemed, 
too,  that  Madame  over  yonder  was  keeping  more 
within  bounds. 

The  cashier  was  triumphant. 

"You  see,  my  boy,  whether  I  did  well  to  write  to 
you.  Your  arrival  was  all  that  was  needed  to  straighten 
everything  out.  And  yet,"  the  good  man  would  add  by 
force  of  habit,  "and  yet  /  Iiaj  no  gonjidence.''^ 

"Never  fear,  Monsieur  Sigismond,  I  am  here,"  the 
judge  would  reply. 

"You're  not  going  away  yet,  are  you,  my  dear 
Frantz?" 

"No,  no — not  yet.  I  have  an  important  matter  to 
finish  up  first." 

"Ah!  so  much  the  better." 

The  important  matter  to  which  Frantz  referred  was 
his  marriage  to  Desir6e  Delobelle.  He  had  not  yet 
mentioned  it  to  any  one,  not  even  to  her;  but  Mam'- 
zelle  Zizi  must  have  suspected  something,  for  she  be- 
came prettier  and  more  light-hearted  from  day  to  day, 
as  if  she  foresaw  that  the  day  would  soon  come  when 
she  would  need  all  her  gayety  and  all  her  beauty. 

They  were  alone  in  the  workroom  one  Sunday  after- 
noon. Mamma  Delobelle  had  gone  out,  proud  enough 
|;o  show  herself  for  once  in  public  with  her  great  man, 

I  203  ] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

and  leaving  friend  Frantz  with  her  daughter  to  keep  her 
company.  Carefully  dressed,  his  whole  person  denot- 
ing a  holiday  air,  Frantz  had  a  singular  expression  on 
his  face  that  day,  an  expression  at  once  timid  and  reso- 
lute, emotional  and  solemn,  and  simply  from  the  way 
in  which  the  little  low  chair  took  its  place  beside  the 
great  easy-chair,  the  easy-chair  understood  that  a  very 
serious  communication  was  about  to  be  made  to  it  in 
confidence,  and  it  had  some  little  suspicion  as  to  what 
it  might  be. 

The  conversation  began  with  divers  unimportant 
remarks,  interspersed  with  long  and  frequent  pauses, 
just  as,  on  a  journey,  we  stop  at  every  baiting-place  to 
take  breath,  to  enable  us  to  reach  our  destination. 

"It  is  a  fine  day  to-day." 

"Oh!  yes,  beautiful." 

"Our  flowers  still  smell  sweet." 

"Oh!  very  sweet." 

And  even  as  they  uttered  those  trivial  sentences, 
their  voices  trembled  at  the  thought  of  what  was  about 
to  be  said. 

At  last  the  little  low  chair  moved  a  little  nearer  the 
great  easy -chair;  their  eyes  met,  their  fingers  were 
intertwined,  and  the  two,  in  low  tones,  slowly  called 
each  other  by  their  names. 

"Desiree!" 

"Frantz!" 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

It  was  the  soft  little  tap  of  a  daintily  gloved  hand 
which  fears  to  soil  itself  by  the  slightest  touch. 

"Come  in!"  said  Desir^e,  with  a  slight  gesture  of 
[  204  ] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

impatience;  and  Sidonie  appeared,  lovely,  coquettish, 
and  affable.  She  had  come  to  see  her  little  Zizi,  to 
embrace  her  as  she  was  passing  by.  She  had  been 
meaning  to  come  for  so  long. 

Frantz's  presence  seemed  to  surprise  her  greatly, 
and,  being  engrossed  by  her  delight  in  talking  with  her 
former  friend,  she  hardly  looked  at  him.  After  the 
effusive  greetings  and  caresses,  after  a  pleasant  chat 
over  old  times,  she  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  window 
on  the  landing  and  the  room  formerly  occupied  by  the 
Rislers.  It  pleased  her  thus  to  live  all  her  youth  over 
again. 

"Do  you  remember,   Frantz,   when  the  Princess 
Humming-bird  entered  your  room,  holding  her  little 
head  very  straight  under  a  diadem  of  birds'  feathers?" 

Frantz  did  not  reply.  He  was  too  deeply  moved  to 
reply.  Something  warned  him  that  it  was  on  his  ac- 
count, solely  on  his  account,  that  the  woman  had  come, 
that  she  was  determined  to  see  him  again,  to  prevent 
him  from  giving  himself  to  another,  and  the  poor  wretch 
realized  with  dismay  that  she  would  not  have  to  ex- 
ert herself  overmuch  to  accomplish  her  object.  When 
he  saw  her  enter  the  room,  his  whole  heart  had  been 
caught  in  her  net  once  more. 

Desiree  suspected  nothing,  not  she !  Sidonie's  man- 
ner was  so  frank  and  friendly.  And  then,  they  were 
brother  and  sister  now.  Love  was  no  longer  possible 
between  them. 

But  the  little  cripple  had  a  vague  presentiment  of 
woe  when  Sidonie,  standing  in  the  doorway  and  ready 
to  go,  turned  carelessly  to  her  brother-in-law  and  said : 

[205] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"By  the  way,  Frantz,  Risler  told  me  to  be  sure  to 
bring  you  back  to  dine  with  us  to-night.  The  carriage 
is  below.    We  will  pick  him  up  as  we  pass  the  factory." 

Then  she  added,  with  the  prettiest  smile  imaginable : 

"You  will  let  us  have  him,  won't  you,  Ziree?  Don't 
be  afraid;  we  will  send  him  back." 

And  he  had  the  courage  to  go,  the  ungrateful  wretch! 

He  went  without  hesitation,  without  once  turning 
back,  whirled  away  by  his  passion  as  by  a  raging  sea, 
and  neither  on  that  day  nor  the  next  nor  ever  after 
could  Mam'zelle  Zizi's  great  easy-chair  learn  what  the 
interesting  communication  was  that  the  little  low  chair 
had  to  make  to  it. 


[2C6] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  WAITING-ROOM 

*EIX,  yes,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  more  than' 
ever  and  forever!  What  is  the  use  of  strug- 
gling and  fighting  against  fate?  Our  sin  is 
stronger  than  we.  But,  after  all,  is  it  a  crime 
for  us  to  love?  We  were  destined  for  each 
other.  Have  we  not  the  right  to  come  to- 
gether, although  Ufe  has  parted  us?  So, 
come!  It  is  all  over;  we  will  go  away. 
Meet  me  to-morrow  evening,  Lyon  station, 
at  ten  o'clock.  The  tickets  are  secured  and 
I  shall  be  there  awaiting  you.  Frantz." 

For  a  month  past  Sidonie  had  been  hoping  for  that 
letter,  a  month  during  which  she  had  brought  all  her 
coaxing  and  cunning  into  play  to  lure  her  brother-in- 
law  on  to  that  written  revelation  of  passion.  She  had 
difficulty  in  accomplishing  it.  It  was  no  easy  matter  to 
pervert  an  honest  young  heart  like  Frantz' s  to  the  point 
of  committing  a  crime;  and  in  that  strange  contest,  in 
which  the  one  who  really  loved  fought  against  his  own 
cause,  she  had  often  felt  that  she  was  at  the  end  of  her 
strength  and  was  almost  discouraged.  When  she  was 
most  confident  that  he  was  conquered,  his  sense  of 
right  would  suddenly  rebel,  and  he  would  be  all  ready 
to  flee,  to  escape  her  once  more. 

What  a  triumph  it  was  for  her,  therefore,  when  that 
[207] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

letter  was  handed  to  her  one  morning.  Madame  Dob- 
son  happened  to  be  there.  She  had  just  arrived,  la- 
den with  complaints  from  Georges,  who  was  horribly 
bored  away  from  his  mistress,  and  was  beginning  to  be 
alarmed  concerning  this  brother-in-law,  who  was  more 
attentive,  more  jealous,  more  exacting  than  a  husband. 

"Oh!  the  poor,  dear  fellow,  the  poor,  dear,  fellow," 
said  the  sentimental  American,  "if  you  could  see  how 
unhappy  he  is!" 

And,  shaking  her  curls,  she  unrolled  her  music-roll 
and  took  from  it  the  poor,  dear  fellow's  letters,  which 
she  had  carefully  hidden  between  the  leaves  of  her 
songs,  delighted  to  be  involved  in  this  love-story,  to  give 
vent  to  her  emotion  in  an  atmosphere  of  intrigue  and 
mystery  which  melted  her  cold  eyes  and  suffused  her 
dry,  pale  complexion. 

Strange  to  say,  while  lending  her  aid  most  willingly 
to  this  constant  going  and  coming  of  love-letters,  the 
youthful  and  attractive  Dobson  had  never  written  or 
received  a  single  one  on  her  own  account. 

Always  on  the  road  between  Asnieres  and  Paris  with 
an  amorous  message  under  her  wing,  that  odd  carrier- 
pigeon  remained  true  to  her  own  dovecot  and  cooed  for 
none  but  unselfish  motives. 

When  Sidonie  showed  her  Frantz's  note,  Madame 
Dobson  asked : 

"What  shall  you  write  in  reply?" 

"I  have  already  written.    I  consented." 

' '  What  1    You  will  go  away  with  that  madman  ? ' ' 

Sidonie  laughed  scornfully. 

"Ha!  ha!  well,  hardly!  I  consented  so  that  he  may 
[208] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

go  and  wait  for  me  at  the  station.  That  is  all.  The 
least  I  can  do  is  to  give  him  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of 
agony.  He  has  made  me  miserable  enough  for  the  last 
month.  Just  consider  that  I  have  changed  my  whole 
life  for  my  gentleman!  I  have  had  to  close  my  doors 
and  give  up  seeing  my  friends  and  everybody  I  know 
who  is  young  and  agreeable,  beginning  with  Georges 
and  ending  with  you.  For  you  know,  my  dear,  you 
weren't  agreeable  to  him,  and  he  would  have  liked  to 
dismiss  you  with  the  rest." 

The  one  thing  that  Sidonie  did  not  mention — and  it 
was  the  deepest  cause  of  her  anger  against  Frantz — 
was  that  he  had  frightened  her  terribly  by  threatening 
to  tell  her  husband  her  guilty  secret.  From  that  mo- 
ment she  had  felt  decidedly  ill  at  ease,  and  her  life,  her 
dear  life,  which  she  so  petted  and  coddled,  had  seemed 
to  her  to  be  exposed  to  serious  danger.  Yes,  the  thought 
that  her  husband  might  some  day  be  apprized  of  her 
conduct  positively  terrified  her. 

That  blessed  letter  put  an  end  to  all  her  fears.  It 
was  impossible  now  for  Frantz  to  expose  her,  even  in 
the  frenzy  of  his  disappointment,  knowing  that  she  had 
such  a  weapon  in  her  hands;  and  if  he  did  speak,  she 
would  show  the  letter,  and  all  his  accusations  would 
become  in  Risler's  eyes  calumny  pure  and  simple.  Ah, 
master  judge,  we  have  you  now! 

'*I  am  born  again — I  am  born  again!"  she  cried  to 
Madame  Dobson.  She  ran  out  into  the  garden,  gath- 
ered great  bouquets  for  her  salon,  threw  the  windows 
wide  open  to  the  sunlight,  gave  orders  to  the  cook,  the 
coachman,  the  gardener.    The  house  must  be  made  to 

14  [  209  ] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

look  beautiful,  for  Georges  was  coming  back,  and  for 
a  beginning  she  organized  a  grand  dinner-party  for  the 
end  of  the  week. 

The  next  evening  Sidonie,  Risler,  and  Madame 
Dobson  were  together  in  the  salon.  While  honest  Ris- 
ler turned  the  leaves  of  an  old  handbook  of  mechanics, 
Sidonie  sang  to  Madame  Dobson's  accompaniment. 
Suddenly  she  stopped  in  the  middle  of  her  aria  and 
burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter.  The  clock  had  just  struck 
ten. 

Risler  looked  up  quickly. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"Nothing — an  idea  that  came  into  my  head,"  replied 
Sidonie,  winking  at  Madame  Dobson  and  pointing  at 
the  clock. 

It  was  the  hour  appointed  for  the  meeting,  and  she 
was  thinking  of  her  lover's  torture  as  he  waited  for  her 
to  come. 

Since  the  return  of  the  messenger  bringing  from  Si- 
donie the  "yes"  he  had  so  feverishly  awaited,  a  great 
calm  had  come  over  his  troubled  mind,  like  the  sudden 
removal  of  a  heavy  burden.  No  more  uncertainty,  no 
more  clashing  between  passion  and  duty. 

Not  once  did  it  occur  to  him  that  on  the  other  side  of 
the  landing  some  one  was  weeping  and  sighing  because 
of  him.  Not  once  did  he  think  of  his  brother's  despair, 
of  the  ghastly  drama  they  were  to  leave  behind  them. 
He  saw  a  sweet  little  pale  face  resting  beside  his  in  the 
railway  train,  a  blooming  lip  within  reach  of  his  lip, 
and  two  fathomless  eyes  looking  at  him  by  the  soft  light 

[210] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

of  the  lamp,  to  the  soothing  accompaniment  of  the 
wheels  and  the  steam. 

Two  hours  before  the  opening  of  the  gate  for  the 
designated  train,  Frantz  was  already  at  the  Lyon  sta- 
tion, that  gloomy  station  which,  in  the  distant  quarter 
of  Paris  in  which  it  is  situated,  seems  like  a  first  halting- 
place  in  the  provinces.  He  sat  down  in  the  darkest 
corner  and  remained  there  without  stirring,  as  if  dazed. 

Instinctively,  although  the  appointed  hour  was  still 
distant,  he  looked  among  the  people  who  were  hurry- 
ing along,  calling  to  one  another,  to  see  if  he  could  not 
discern  that  graceful  figure  suddenly  emerging  from  the 
crowd  and  thrusting  it  aside  at  every  step  with  the 
radiance  of  her  beauty. 

After  many  departures  and  arrivals  and  shrill  whis- 
tles, the  station  suddenly  became  empty,  as  deserted  as 
a  church  on  weekdays.  The  time  for  the  ten  o'clock 
train  was  drawing  near.  There  was  no  other  train 
before  that.  Frantz  rose.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  half 
an  hour  at  the  least,  she  would  be  there. 

Frantz  went  hither  and  thither,  watching  the  car- 
riages that  arrived.  Each  new  arrival  made  him  start. 
He  fancied  that  he  saw  her  enter,  closely  veiled,  hesi- 
tating, a  little  embarrassed.  How  quickly  he  would  be 
by  her  side,  to  comfort  her,  to  protect  her! 

The  hour  for  the  departure  of  the  train  was  approach- 
ing. He  looked  at  the  clock.  There  was  but  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  more.  It  alarmed  him;  but  the  bell  at  the 
wicket,  which  had  now  been  opened,  summoned  him. 
He  ran  thither  and  took  his  place  in  the  long  line. 

[211] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

''Two  first-class  for  Marseilles,"  he  said.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  if  that  were  equivalent  to  taking  possession. 

He  made  his  way  back  to  his  post  of  observation 
through  the  luggage-laden  wagons  and  the  late-comers 
who  jostled  him  as  they  ran.  The  drivers  shouted, 
"Take  care!"  He  stood  there  among  the  wheels  of 
the  cabs,  under  the  horses'  feet,  with  deaf  ears  and 
staring  eyes.  Only  five  minutes  more.  It  was  almost 
impossible  for  her  to  arrive  in  time. 

At  last  she  appeared. 

Yes,  there  she  is,  it  is  certainly  she — a  woman  in 
black,  slender  and  graceful,  accompanied  by  another 
shorter  woman — Madame  Dobson,  no  doubt. 

But  a  second  glance  undeceived  him.  It  was  a 
young  woman  who  resembled  her,  a  woman  of  fashion 
like  her,  with  a  happy  face.  A  man,  also  young,  joined 
them.  It  was  evidently  a  wedding-party;  the  mother 
accompanied  them,  to  see  them  safely  on  board  the 
train. 

Now  there  is  the  confusion  of  departure,  the  last 
stroke  of  the  bell,  the  steam  escaping  with  a  hissing 
sound,  mingled  with  the  hurried  footsteps  of  belated 
passengers,  the  slamming  of  doors  and  the  rumbling  of 
the  heavy  omnibuses.  Sidonie  comes  not.  And  Frantz 
still  waits. 

At  that  moment  a  hand  is  placed  on  his  shoulder. 

Great  God! 

He  turns.  The  coarse  face  of  M.  Gardinois,  sur- 
rounded by  a  travelling-cap  with  ear-pieces,  is  before 
him. 

*'I  am  not  mistaken,  it  is  Monsieur  Risler.  Are  you 
[212] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

going  to  Marseilles  by  the  express?    I  am  not  going 
far." 

He  explains  to  Frantz  that  he  has  missed  the  Orleans 
train,  and  is  going  to  try  to  connect  with  Savigny  by 
the  Lyon  line ;  then  he  talks  about  Risler  Atne  and  the 
factory. 

"It  seems  that  business  hasn't  been  prospering  for 
some  time.  They  were  caught  in  the  Bonnardel  failure. 
Ah!  our  young  men  need  to  be  careful.  At  the  rate 
they're  sailing  their  ship,  the  same  thing  is  likely  to 
happen  to  them  that  happened  to  Bonnardel.  But 
excuse  me,  I  believe  they're  about  to  close  the  gate. 
Au  revoir.'^ 

Frantz  has  hardly  heard  what  he  has  been  saying. 
His  brother's  ruin,  the  destruction  of  the  whole  world, 
nothing  is  of  any  further  consequence  to  him.  He  is 
waiting,  waiting. 

But  now  the  gate  is  abruptly  closed  like  a  last  barrier 
between  him  and  his  persistent  hope.  Once  more  the 
station  is  empty.  The  uproar  has  been  transferred  to 
the  line  of  the  railway,  and  suddenly  a  shrill  whistle 
falls  upon  the  lover's  ear  like  an  ironical  farewell,  then 
dies  away  in  the  darkness. 

The  ten  o'clock  train  has  gone! 

He  tries  to  be  calm  and  to  reason.  Evidently  she 
missed  the  train  from  Asnieres;  but,  knowing  that  he 
is  waiting  for  her,  she  will  come,  no  matter  how  late  it 
may  be.  He  will  wait  longer.  The  waiting-room  was 
made  for  that. 

The  unhappy  man  sits  down  on  a  bench.  The  pros- 
pect of  a  long  vigil  brings  to  his  mind  a  well-known 

[213] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

room  in  which  at  that  hour  the  lamp  burns  low  on  a 
table  laden  with  humming-birds  and  insects,  but  that 
vision  passes  swiftly  through  his  mind  in  the  chaos  of 
confused  thoughts  to  which  the  delirium  of  suspense 
gives  birth. 

And  while  he  thus  lost  himself  in  thought,  the  hours 
passed.  The  roofs  of  the  buildings  of  Mazas,  buried 
in  darkness,  were  already  beginning  to  stand  out  dis- 
tinctly against  the  brightening  sky.  What  was  he  to 
do  ?  He  must  go  to  Asnieres  at  once  and  try  to  find  out 
what  had  happened.    He  wished  he  were  there  already. 

Having  made  up  his  mind,  he  descended  the  steps  of 
the  station  at  a  rapid  pace,  passing  soldiers  with  their 
knapsacks  on  their  backs,  and  poor  people  who  rise 
early  coming  to  take  the  morning  train,  the  train  of 
poverty  and  want. 

In  front  of  one  of  the  stations  he  saw  a  crowd  col- 
lected, ragpickers  and  countrywomen.  Doubtless  some 
drama  of  the  night  about  to  reach  its  denouement  before 
the  Commissioner  of  Police.  Ah!  if  Frantz  had 
known  what  that  drama  was!  but  he  could  have  no 
suspicion,  and  he  glanced  at  the  crowd  indifferently 
from  a  distance. 

When  he  reached  Asnieres,  after  a  walk  of  two  or 
three  hours,  it  was  like  an  awakening.  The  sun,  rising 
in  all  its  glory,  set  field  and  river  on  fire.  The  bridge, 
the  houses,  the  quay,  all  stood  forth  with  that  matutinal 
sharpness  of  outline  which  gives  the  impression  of  a 
new  day  emerging,  luminous  and  smiling,  from  the 
dense  mists  of  the  night.  From  a  distance  he  descried 
his  brother's  house,  already  awake,  the  open  blinds 

[214] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

and  the  flowers  on  the  window-sills.  He  wandered 
about  some  time  before  he  could  summon  courage  to 
enter. 

Suddenly  some  one  hailed  him  from  the  shore : 

"Ah!  Monsieur  Frantz.  How  early  you  are  to- 
day ! " 

It  was  Sidonie's  coachman  taking  his  horses  to  bathe 
in  the  river. 

"Has  anything  happened  at  the  house?"  inquired 
Frantz  tremblingly. 

"No,  Monsieur  Frantz." 

"Is  my  brother  at  home?" 

"No,  Monsieur  slept  at  the  factory." 

"No  one  sick?" 

"No,  Monsieur  Frantz,  no  one,  so  far  as  I  know." 

Thereupon  Frantz  made  up  his  mind  to  ring  at  the 
small  gate.  The  gardener  was  raking  the  paths.  The 
house  was  astir;  and,  early  as  it  was,  he  heard  Si- 
donie's voice  as  clear  and  vibrating  as  the  song  of  a  bird 
among  the  rosebushes  of  the  facade. 

She  was  talking  with  animation.  Frantz,  deeply 
moved,  drew  near  to  listen. 

"No,  no  cream.  The  cafe  parfait  will  be  enough. 
Be  sure  that  it's  well  frozen  and  ready  at  seven  o'clock. 
^Oh!  aibout  2in  entree — let  us  see " 

She  was  holding  council  with  her  cook  concerning 
the  famous  dinner-party  for  the  next  day.  Her  brother- 
in-law's  sudden  appearance  did  not  disconcert  her. 

"Ah!  good-morning,  Frantz,"  she  said  very  coolly. 
"I  am  at  your  service  directly.  We're  to  have  some 
people  to  dinner  to-morrow,  customers  of  the  firm,  a 

[215] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

grand  business  dinner.  You'll  excuse  me,  won't 
you?" 

Fresh  and  smiling,  in  the  white  ruffles  of  her  trailing 
morning-gown  and  her  little  lace  cap,  she  continued  to 
discuss  her  menu,  inhaling  the  cool  air  that  rose  from 
the  fields  and  the  river.  There  was 'not  the  slightest 
trace  of  chagrin  or  anxiety  upon  that  tranquil  face, 
which  was  a  striking  contrast  to  the  lover's  features, 
distorted  by  a  night  of  agony  and  fatigue. 

For  a  long  quarter  of  an  hour  Frantz,  sitting  in  a 
comer  of  the  salon,  saw  all  the  conventional  dishes  of 
a  bourgeois  dinner  pass  before  him  in  their  regular 
order,  from  the  little  hot  pdtes,  the  sole  Normande  and 
the  innumerable  ingredients  of  which  that  dish  is  com- 
posed, to  the  Montreuil  peaches  and  Fontainebleau 
grapes. 

At  last,  when  they  were  alone  and  he  was  able  to 
speak,  he  asked  in  a  hollow  voice : 

"Didn't  you  receive  my  letter?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course." 

She  had  risen  to  go  to  the  mirror  and  adjust  a  little 
curl  or  two  entangled  with  her  floating  ribbons,  and 
continued,  looking  at  herself  all  the  while : 

"Yes,  I  received  your  letter.  Indeed,  I  was  charmed 
to  receive  it.  Now,  should  you  ever  feel  inclined  to  tell 
your  brother  any  of  the  vile  stories  about  me  that  you 
have  threatened  me  with,  I  could  easily  satisfy  him 
that  the  only  source  of  your  lying  tale-bearing  was  an- 
ger with  me  for  repulsing  a  criminal  passion  as  it  de- 
served. Consider  yourself  warned,  my  dear  boy — and 
au  revoir.^^ 

[216] 


And  he  did  nolkjH  f^rl 

{See  page  2l7J 
[From  Ihe  Original  Draioitt  h  P.   A.   Roux] 


v^^t  »»D4  »9a> 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

As  pleased  as  an  actress  who  has  just  delivered  a  tell- 
ing speech  with  fine  effect,  she  passed  him  and  left  the 
room  smiling,  with  a  little  curl  at  the  comers  of  her 
mouth,  triumphant  and  without  anger. 

And  he  did  not  kill  her! 


[217] 


CHAPTER  XVII 


AN  ITEM  OF  NEWS 


N  the  evening  preceding  that  ill-omened 
day,  a  few  moments  after  Frantz  had 
stealthily  left  his  room  on  Rue  de 
Braque,  the  illustrious  Delobelle  re- 
turned home,  with  downcast  face  and 
that  air  of  lassitude  and  disillusion- 
ment with  which  he  always  met  un- 
toward events. 
*'  Oh !  mon  Dieu,  my  poor  man,  what  has  happened  ? " 
instantly  inquired  Madame  Delobelle,  whom  twenty 
years  of  exaggerated  dramatic  pantomime  had  not  yet 
surfeited. 

Before  replying,  the  ex-actor,  who  never  failed  to 
precede  his  most  trivial  words  with  some  facial  play, 
learned  long  before  for  stage  purposes,  dropped  his 
lower  lip,  in  token  of  disgust  and  loathing,  as  if  he  had 
just  swallowed  something  very  bitter. 

"The  matter  is  that  those  Rislers  are  certainly  in- 
grates  or  egotists,  and,  beyond  all  question,  exceed- 
ingly ill-bred.  Do  you  know  what  I  just  learned  down- 
stairs from  the  concierge,  who  glanced  at  me  out  of  the 
comer  of  his  eye,  making  sport  of  me?  Well,  Frantz 
Risler  has  gone!  He  left  the  house  a  short  time  ago, 
and  has  left  Paris  perhaps  ere  this,  without  so  much 

[218] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

as  coming  to  shake  my  hand,  to  thank  me  for  the  wel- 
come he  has  received  here.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ? 
For  he  didn't  say  good-by  to  you  two  either,  did  he? 
And  yet,  only  a  month  ago,  he  was  always  in  our  rooms, 
without  any  remonstrance  from  us." 

Mamma  Delobelle  uttered  an  exclamation  of  gen- 
uine surprise  and  grief.  Desiree,  on  the  contrary,  did 
not  say  a  word  or  make  a  motion.  She  was  always  the 
same  little  iceberg. 

Oh!  wretched  mother,  turn  your  eyes  upon  your 
daughter.  See  that  transparent  pallor,  those  tearless 
eyes  which  gleam  unwaveringly,  as  if  their  thoughts 
and  their  gaze  were  concentrated  on  some  object  visible 
to  them  alone.  Cause  that  poor  suffering  heart  to  open 
itself  to  you.  Question  your  child.  Make  her  speak, 
above  all  things  make  her  weep,  to  rid  her  of  the  bur- 
den that  is  stifling  her,  so  that  her  tear-dimmed  eyes 
can  no  longer  distinguish  in  space  that  horrible  un- 
known thing  upon  which  they  are  fixed  in  desperation 
now. 

For  nearly  a  month  past,  ever  since  the  day  when 
Sidonie  came  and  took  Frantz  away  in  her  coupe,  De- 
siree had  known  that  she  was  no  longer  loved,  and  she 
knew  her  rival's  name.  She  bore  them  no  ill-will,  she 
pitied  them  rather.  But,  why  had  he  returned  ?  Why 
had  he  so  heedlessly  given  her  false  hopes  ?  How  many 
tears  had  she  devoured  in  silence  since  those  hours! 
How  many  tales  of  woe  had  she  told  her  little  birds! 
For  once  more  it  was  work  that  had  sustained  her,  des- 
perate, incessant  work,  which,  by  its  regularity  and 
monotony,  by  the  constant  recurrence  of  the  same  du- 

[219] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

ties  and  the  same  motions,  served  as  a  balance-wheel  to 
her  thoughts. 

Lately  Frantz  was  not  altogether  lost  to  her.  Al- 
though he  came  but  rarely  to  see  her,  she  knew  that  he 
was  there,  she  could  hear  him  go  in  and  out,  pace  the 
floor  with  restless  step,  and  sometimes,  through  the 
half-open  door,  see  his  loved  shadow  hurry  across  the 
landing.  He  did  not  seem  happy.  Indeed,  what  hap- 
piness could  be  in  store  for  him?  He  loved  his  broth- 
er's wife.  And  at  the  thought  that  Frantz  was  not 
happy,  the  fond  creature  almost  forgot  her  own  sorrow 
to  think  only  of  the  sorrow  of  the  man  she  loved. 

She  was  well  aware  that  it  was  impossible  that  he 
could  ever  love  her  again.  But  she  thought  that  per- 
haps she  would  see  him  come  in  some  day,  wounded 
and  dying,  that  he  would  sit  down  on  the  little  low 
chair,  lay  his  head  on  her  knees,  and  with  a  great  sob 
tell  her  of  his  suffering  and  say  to  her,  "Comfort 
me." 

That  forlorn  hope  kept  her  alive  for  three  weeks. 
She  needed  so  little  as  that. 

But  no.  Even  that  was  denied  her.  Frantz  had 
gone,  gone  without  a  glance  for  her,  without  a  parting 
word.  The  lover's  desertion  was  followed  by  the  de- 
sertion of  the  friend.    It  was  horrible! 

At  her  father's  first  words,  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
hurled  into  a  deep,  ice-cold  abyss,  filled  with  darkness, 
into  which  she  plunged  swiftly,  helplessly,  well  knowing 
that  she  would  never  return  to  the  light.  She  was  suf- 
focating. She  would  have  liked  to  resist^  to  struggle^ 
to  caU  for  help, 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Who  was  there  who  had  the  power  to  sustain  her  in 
that  great  disaster  ? 

God  ?    The  thing  that  is  called  Heaven  ? 

She  did  not  even  think  of  that.  In  Paris,  especially 
in  the  quarters  where  the  working  class  live,  the  houses 
are  too  high,  the  streets  too  narrow,  the  air  too  murky 
for  heaven  to  be  seen. 

It  was  Death  alone  at  which  the  little  cripple  was 
gazing  so  earnestly.  Her  course  was  determined  upon 
at  once:  she  must  die.    But  how? 

Sitting  motionless  in  her  easy-chair,  she  considered 
what  manner  of  death  she  should  choose.  As  she  was 
almost  never  alone,  she  could  not  think  of  the  brazier 
of  charcoal,  to  be  lighted  after  closing  the  doors  and 
windows.  As  she  never  went  out  she  could  not  think 
either  of  poison  to  be  purchased  at  the  druggist's,  a 
little  package  of  white  powder  to  be  buried  in  the  depths 
of  the  pocket,  with  the  needle-case  and  the  thimble. 
There  was  the  phosphorus  on  the  matches,  too,  the 
verdigris  on  old  sous,  the  open  window  with  the  paved 
street  below;  but  the  thought  of  forcing  upon  her  par- 
ents the  ghastly  spectacle  of  a  self-inflicted  death-agony, 
the  thought  that  what  would  remain  of  her,  picked  up 
amid  a  crowd  of  people,  would  be  so  frightful  to  look 
upon,  made  her  reject  that  method. 

She  still  had  the  river.    At  all  events,  the  water  car- 
ries you  away  somewhere,  so  that  nobody  finds  you 
and  your  death  is  shrouded  in  mystery. 

The  river!  She  shuddered  at  the  mere  thought.  But 
it  was  not  the  vision  of  the  deep,  black  water  that  ter- 
rified her.   The  girls  of  Paris  laugh  at  that.   You  throw 

[221] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

your  apron  over  your  head  so  that  you  can't  see,  and 
ponj!  But  she  must  go  downstairs,  into  the  street,  all 
alone,  and  the  street  frightened  her. 

Yes,  it  was  a  terrible  thing  to  go  out  into  the 
street  alone.  She  must  wait  until  the  gas  was  out, 
steal  softly  downstairs  when  her  mother  had  gone 
to  bed,  pull  the  cord  of  the  gate,  and  make  her 
way  across  Paris,  where  you  meet  men  who  stare 
impertinently  into  your  face,  and  pass  brilliantly 
lighted  cafes.  The  river  was  a  long  distance  away. 
She  would  be  very  tired.  However,  there  was  no  other 
way  than  that. 

"I  am  going  to  bed,  my  child;  are  you  going  to  sit 
up  any  longer?" 

With  her  eyes  on  her  work,  "my  child"  replied  that 
she  was.    She  wished  to  finish  her  dozen. 

"Good-night,  then,"  said  Mamma  Delobelle,  her  en- 
feebled sight  being  unable  to  endure  the  light  longer. 
"I  have  put  father's  supper  by  the  fire.  Just  look  at  it 
before  you  go  to  bed." 

D^sir^e  did  not  lie.  She  really  intended  to  finish  her 
dozen,  so  that  her  father  could  take  them  to  the  shop  in 
the  morning;  and  really,  to  see  that  tranquil  little  head 
bending  forward  in  the  white  light  of  the  lamp,  one 
would  never  have  imagined  all  the  sinister  thoughts 
with  which  it  was  thronged. 

At  last  she  takes  up  the  last  bird  of  the  dozen,  a  mar- 
vellously lovely  little  bird  whose  wings  seem  to  have 
been  dipped  in  sea-water,  all  green  as  they  are  with  a 
tinge  of  sapphire. 

Carefully,  daintily,  D^sir^e  suspends  it  on  a  piece 

[  222  ] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

of  brass  wire,  in  the  charming  attitude  of  a  frightened 
creature  about  to  fiy  away. 

Ah!  how  true  it  is  that  the  little  blue  bird  is  about  to 
fly  away!  What  a  desperate  flight  into  space!  How 
certain  one  feels  that  this  time  it  is  the  great  journey, 
the  everlasting  journey  from  which  there  is  no  return ! 

By  and  by,  very  softly,  Desiree  opens  the  wardrobe 
and  takes  a  thin  shawl  which  she  throws  over  her 
shoulders ;  then  she  goes.  What  ?  Not  a  glance  at  her 
mother,  not  a  silent  farewell,  not  a  tear?  No,  nothing! 
With  the  terrible  clearness  of  vision  of  those  who  are 
about  to  die,  she  suddenly  realizes  that  her  childhood 
and  youth  have  been  sacrificed  to  a  vast  self-love.  She 
feels  very  sure  that  a  word  from  their  great  man  will 
comfort  that  sleeping  mother,  with  whom  she  is  almost 
angry  for  not  waking,  for  allowing  her  to  go  without  a 
quiver  of  her  closed  eyelids. 

When  one  dies  young,  even  by  one's  own  act,  it  is 
never  without  a  rebellious  feeling,  and  poor  Desiree 
bids  adieu  to  life,  indignant  with  destiny. 

Now  she  is  in  the  street.  Where  is  she  going? 
Everything  seems  deserted  already.  Desiree  walks 
rapidly,  wrapped  in  her  little  shawl,  head  erect,  dry- 
eyed.    Not  knowing  the  way,  she  walks  straight  ahead. 

The  dark,  narrow  streets  of  the  Marais,  where  gas- 
jets  twinkle  at  long  intervals,  cross  and  recross  and 
wind  about,  and  again  and  again  in  her  feverish  course 
she  goes  over  the  same  ground.  There  is  always  some- 
thing between  her  and  the  river.  And  to  think  that,  at 
that  very  hour,  almost  in  the  same  quarter,  some  one 
else  is  wandering  through  the  streets,  waiting,  watch- 

[223] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

ing,  desperate!  Ah!  if  they  could  but  meet.  Suppose 
she  should  accost  that  feverish  watcher,  should  ask 
him  to  direct  her : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Monsieur.  How  can  I  get  to 
the  Seine?" 

He  would  recognize  her  at  once. 

"What!  Can  it  be  you,  Mam'zelle  Zizi?  What  are 
you  doing  out-of-doors  at  this  time  of  night?" 

"I  am  going  to  die,  Frantz.  You  have  taken  away 
all  my  pleasure  in  living." 

Thereupon  he,  deeply  moved,  would  seize  her,  press 
her  to  his  heart  and  carry  her  away  in  his  arms,  saying : 

"Oh!  no,  do  not  die.  I  need  you  to  comfort  me,  to 
cure  all  the  wounds  the  other  has  inflicted  on  me." 

But  that  is  a  mere  poet's  dream,  one  of  the  meetings 
that  life  can  not  bring  about. 

Streets,  more  streets,  then  a  square  and  a  bridge 
whose  lanterns  make  another  luminous  bridge  in  the 
black  water.  Here  is  the  river  at  last.  The  mist  of  that 
damp,  soft  autumn  evening  causes  all  of  this  huge 
Paris,  entirely  strange  to  her  as  it  is,  to  appear  to  her 
like  an  enormous  confused  mass,  which  her  ignorance 
of  the  landmarks  magnifies  still  more.  This  is  the  place 
where  she  must  die. 

Poor  little  Desiree! 

She  recalls  the  country  excursion  which  Frantz  had 
organized  for  her.  That  breath  of  nature,  which  she 
breathed  that  day  for  the  first  time,  falls  to  her  lot  again 
at  the  moment  of  her  death.  "Remember,"  it  seems 
to  say  to  her;  and  she  replies  mentally,  "Oh!  yes,  I 
remember," 

[824] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

She  remembers  only  too  well.  When  it  arrives  at  the 
end  of  the  quay,  which  was  bedecked  as  for  a  holiday, 
the  furtive  little  shadow  pauses  at  the  steps  leading 
down  to  the  bank. 

Almost  immediately  there  are  shouts  and  excitement 
all  along  the  quay : 

"Quick — a  boat — grappling-irons!"  Boatmen  and 
policemen  come  running  from  all  sides.  A  boat  puts 
off  from  the  shore  with  a  lantern  in  the  bow. 

The  flower-women  awake,  and,  when  one  of  them 
asks  with  a  yawn  what  is  happening,  the  woman  who 
keeps  the  cafe  that  crouches  at  the  comer  of  the  bridge 
answers  coolly: 

"A  woman  just  jumped  into  the  river." 

But  no.  The  river  has  refused  to  take  that  child.  It 
has  been  moved  to  pity  by  so  great  gentleness  and  charm. 
In  the  light  of  the  lanterns  swinging  to  and  fro  on  the 
shore,  a  black  group  forms  and  moves  away.  She  is 
saved!  It  was  a  sand-hauler  who  fished  her  out.  Po- 
licemen are  carrying  her,  surrounded  by  boatmen  and 
lightermen,  and  in  the  darkness  a  hoarse  voice  is  heard 
saying  with  a  sneer:  "That  water-hen  gave  me  a  lot  of 
trouble.  You  ought  to  see  how  she  slipped  through  my 
fingers!  I  believe  she  wanted  to  make  me  lose  my  re- 
ward." Gradually  the  tumult  subsides,  the  bystanders 
disperse,  and  the  black  group  moves  away  toward  a 
police-station. 

Ah !  poor  girl,  you  thought  that  it  was  an  easy  matter 

to  have  done  with  life,  to  disappear  abruptly.    You  did 

not  know  that,  instead  of  bearing  you  away  swiftly  to 

the  oblivion  you  sought,  the  river  would  drive  ^ou  back 

IS  [225] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

to  all  the  shame,  to  all  the  ignominy  of  unsuccessful 
suicide.  First  of  all,  the  station,  the  hideous  station, 
with  its  filthy  benches,  its  floor  where  the  sodden  dust 
seems  like  mud  from  the  street.  There  Desiree  was 
doomed  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  night. 

At  last  day  broke  with  the  shuddering  glare  so  dis- 
tressing to  invalids.  Suddenly  aroused  from  her  torpor, 
Desiree  sat  up  in  her  bed,  threw  off  the  blanket  in  which 
they  had  wrapped  her,  and  despite  fatigue  and  fever 
tried  to  stand,  in  order  to  regain  full  possession  of  her 
faculties  and  her  will.  She  had  but  one  thought — to 
escape  from  all  those  eyes  that  were  opening  on  all 
sides,  to  leave  that  frightful  place  where  the  breath  of 
sleep  was  so  heavy  and  its  attitudes  so  distorted. 

"I  implore  you,  messieurs,"  she  said,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot,  "let  me  return  to  mamma." 

Hardened  as  they  were  to  Parisian  dramas,  even 
those  good  people  realized  that  they  were  face  to  face 
with  something  more  worthy  of  attention,  more  affect- 
ing than  usual.  But  they  could  not  take  her  back  to 
her  mother  as  yet.  She  must  go  before  the  commis- 
sioner first.  That  was  absolutely  necessary.  They 
called  a  cab  from  compassion  for  her ;  but  she  must  go 
from  the  station  to  the  cab,  and  there  was  a  crowd  at 
the  door  to  stare  at  the  little  lame  girl  with  the  damp 
hair  glued  to  her  temples,  and  her  policeman's  blanket 
which  did  not  prevent  her  shivering.  At  headquarters 
she  was  conducted  up  a  dark,  damp  stairway  where 
sinister  figures  were  passing  to  and  fro. 

When  Desiree  entered  the  room,  a  man  rose  from  the 
shadow  and  came  to  meet  her,  holding  out  his  hand. 

[226] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

It  was  the  man  of  the  reward,  her  hideous  rescuer  at 
twenty-five  francs. 

"Well,  little  mother,"  he  said,  with  his  cynical  laugh, 
and  in  a  voice  that  made  one  think  of  foggy  nights  on 
the  water,  "how  are  we  since  our  dive?" 

The  unhappy  girl  was  burning  red  with  fever  and 
shame;  so  bewildered  that  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  the 
river  had  left  a  veil  over  her  eyes,  a  buzzing  in  her  ears. 
At  last  she  was  ushered  into  a  smaller  room,  into  the 
presence  of  a  pompous  individual,  wearing  the  insignia 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire  in 
person,  who  was  sipping  his  cafe  au  lait  and  reading  the 
Gazette  des  Tribunaux. 

"Ah!  it's  you,  is  it?"  he  said  in  a  surly  tone  and 
without  raising  his  eyes  from  his  paper,  as  he  dipped  a 
piece  of  bread  in  his  cup;  and  the  officer  who  had 
brought  Desiree  began  at  once  to  read  his  report : 

"At  quarter  to  twelve,  on  Quai  de  la  Megisserie,  in 
front  of  No.  17,  the  woman  Delobelle,  twenty-four 
years  old,  flower-maker,  living  with  her  parents  on  Rue 
de  Braque,  tried  to  commit  suicide  by  throwing  herself 
into  the  Seine,  and  was  taken  out  safe  and  sound  by 
Sieur  Parcheminet,  sand-hauler  of  Rue  de  la  Butte- 
Chaumont." 

Monsieur  le  Commissaire  listened  as  he  ate,  with  the 
listless,  bored  expression  of  a  man  whom  nothing  can 
surprise;  at  the  end  he  gazed  sternly  and  with  a  pom- 
pous affectation  of  virtue  at  the  woman  Delobelle,  and 
lectured  her  in  the  most  approved  fashion.  It  was  very 
wicked,  it  was  cowardly,  this  thing  that  she  had  done. 
What  could  have  driven  her  to  such  an  evil  act  ?    Why 

[227] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

did  she  seek  to  destroy  herself?  Come,  woman  Delo- 
belle,  answer,  why  was  it? 

But  the  woman  Delobelle  obstinately  declined  to  an- 
swer. It  seemed  to  her  that  it  would  put  a  stigma  upon 
her  love  to  avow  it  in  such  a  place.  ''I  don't  know — I 
don't  know,"  she  whispered,  shivering. 

Testy  and  impatient,  the  commissioner  decided  that 
she  should  be  taken  back  to  her  parents,  but  only  on 
one  condition :  she  must  promise  never  to  try  it  again. 

"Come,  do  you  promise?" 

"Oh!  yes.  Monsieur." 

"You  will  never  try  again?" 

"Oh!  no,  indeed  I  will  not,  never — never!" 

Notwithstanding  her  protestations,  Monsieur  le 
Commissaire  de  Police  shook  his  head,  as  if  he  did  not 
trust  her  oath. 

Now  she  is  outside  once  more,  on  the  way  to  her 
home,  to  a  place  of  refuge ;  but  her  martyrdom  was  not 
yet  at  an  end. 

In  the  carriage,  the  officer  who  accompanied  her  was 
too  polite,  too  affable.  She  seemed  not  to  understand, 
shrank  from  him,  withdrew  her  hand.  What  torture! 
But  the  most  terrible  moment  of  all  was  the  arrival  in 
Rue  de  Braque,  where  the  whole  house  was  in  a  state 
of  commotion,  and  the  inquisitive  curiosity  of  the  neigh- 
bors must  be  endured.  Early  in  the  morning  the  whole 
quarter  had  been  informed  of  her  disappearance.  It 
was  rumored  that  she  had  gone  away  with  Frantz  Ris- 
ler.  The  illustrious  Delobelle  had  gone  forth  very  early, 
intensely  agitated,  with  his  hat  awry  and  rumpled 
wristbands,  a  sure  indication  of  extraordinary  preoccu- 

[228] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLEFt 

pation;  and  the  concierge,  on  taking  up  the  provisions, 
had  found  the  poor  mother  half  mad,  running  from  one 
room  to  another,  looking  for  a  note  from  the  child,  for 
any  clew,  however  unimportant,  that  would  enable  her 
at  least  to  form  some  conjecture. 

Suddenly  a  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  the  door. 
Voices  and  footsteps  echoed  through  the  hall. 

''M'ame  Delobelle,  here  she  is!  Your  daughter's 
been  found." 

It  was  really  Desiree  who  came  toiling  up  the  stairs 
on  the  arm  of  a  stranger,  pale  and  fainting,  without  hat 
or  shawl,  and  wrapped  in  a  great  brown  cape.  When 
she  saw  her  mother  she  smiled  at  her  with  an  almost 
foolish  expression. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,  it  is  nothing,"  she  tried  to  say, 
then  sank  to  the  floor.  Mamma  Delobelle  would  never 
have  believed  that  she  was  so  strong.  To  lift  her  daugh- 
ter, take  her  into  the  room,  and  put  her  to  bed  was  a 
matter  of  a  moment;  and  she  talked  to  her  and  kissed 
her. 

"Here  you  are  at  last.  Where  have  you  come  from, 
you  bad  child  ?  Tell  me,  is  it  true  that  you  tried  to  kill 
yourself?  Were  you  suffering  so  terribly?  Why  did 
you  conceal  it  from  me?" 

When  she  saw  her  mother  in  that  condition,  with 
tear-stained  face,  aged  in  a  few  short  hours,  Desiree  felt 
a  terrible  burden  of  remorse.  She  remembered  that  she 
had  gone  away  without  saying  good-by  to  her,  and 
that  in  the  depths  of  her  heart  she  had  accused  her  of 
not  loving  her. 

Not  loving  her! 

[229] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"Why,  it  would  kill  me  if  you  should  die,"  said  the 
poor  mother.  "Oh!  when  I  got  up  this  morning  and 
saw  that  your  bed  hadn't  been  slept  in  and  that  you 
weren't  in  the  workroom  either! — I  just  turned  round 
and  fell  flat.  Are  you  warm  now?  Do  you  feel  well? 
You  won't  do  it  again,  will  you — try  to  kill  yourself?" 

And  she  tucked  in  the  bed-clothes,  rubbed  her  feet, 
and  rocked  her  upon  her  breast. 

As  she  lay  in  bed  with  her  eyes  closed,  Desir^e  saw 
anew  all  the  incidents  of  her  suicide,  all  the  hideous 
scenes  through  which  she  had  passed  in  returning  from 
death  to  life.  In  the  fever,  which  rapidly  increased,  in 
the  intense  drowsiness  which  began  to  overpower  her, 
her  mad  journey  across  Paris  continued  to  excite  and 
torment  her.  Myriads  of  dark  streets  stretched  away 
before  her,  with  the  Seine  at  the  end  of  each. 

That  ghastly  river,  which  she  could  not  find  in  the 
night,  haunted  her  now. 

She  felt  that  she  was  besmirched  with  its  slime,  its 
mud;  and  in  the  nightmare  that  oppressed  her,  the 
poor  child,  powerless  to  escape  the  obsession  of  her 
recollections,  whispered  to  her  mother:  "Hide  me — 
hide  me — I  am  ashamed!" 


[230] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SHE  PROMISED  NOT  TO  TRY  AGAIN 

H!  no,  she  will  not  try  it  again.  Mon- 
sieur le  Commissaire  need  have  no 
fear.  In  the  first  place  how  could  she 
go  as  far  as  the  river,  now  that  she 
can  not  stir  from  her  bed?  If  Mon- 
sieur le  Commissaire  could  see  her 
now,  he  would  not  doubt  her  word. 
Doubtless  the  wish,  the  longing  for 
death,  so  unmistakably  written  on  her  pale  face  the  other 
morning,  are  still  visible  there;  but  they  are  softened, 
resigned.  The  woman  Delobelle  knows  that  by  waiting 
a  little,  yes,  a  very  little  time,  she  will  have  nothing 
more  to  wish  for. 

The  doctors  declare  that  she  is  dying  of  pneumonia; 
she  must  have  contracted  it  in  her  wet  clothes.  The 
doctors  are  mistaken;  it  is  not  pneumonia.  Is  it  her 
love,  then,  that  is  killing  her?  No.  Since  that  terrible 
night  she  no  longer  thinks  of  Frantz,  she  no  longer  feels 
that  she  is  worthy  to  love  or  to  be  loved.  Thenceforth 
there  is  a  stain  upon  her  spotless  life,  and  it  is  of  the 
shame  of  that  and  of  nothing  else  that  she  is  dying. 

Mamma  Delobelle  sits  by  Desiree's  bed,  working  by 
the  light  from  the  window,  and  nursing  her  daughter. 
From  time  to  time  she  raises  her  eyes  to  contemplate 

[231] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

that  mute  despair,  that  mysterious  disease,  then  hastily 
resumes  her  work;  for  it  is  one  of  the  hardest  trials  of 
the  poor  that  they  can  not  suffer  at  their  ease. 

Mamma  Delobelle  had  to  work  alone  now,  and  her 
fingers  had  not  the  marvellous  dexterity  of  Desiree's 
little  hands;  medicines  were  dear,  and  she  would  not 
for  anything  in  the  world  have  interfered  with  one  of 
"the  father's"  cherished  habits.  And  so,  at  whatever 
hour  the  invalid  opened  her  eyes,  she  would  see  her 
mother,  in  the  pale  light  of  early  morning,  or  under  her 
night  lamp,  working,  working  without  rest. 

Between  two  stitches  the  mother  would  look  up  at 
her  child,  whose  face  grew  paler  and  paler: 

"How  do  you  feel?" 

"Very  well,"  the  sick  girl  would  reply,  with  a  faint, 
heart-broken  smile,  which  illumined  her  sorrowful  face 
and  showed  all  the  ravages  that  had  been  wrought  upon 
it,  as  a  sunbeam,  stealing  into  a  poor  man's  lodging, 
instead  of  brightening  it,  brings  out  more  clearly  its 
cheerlessness  and  nudity. 

The  illustrious  Delobelle  was  never  there.  He  had 
not  changed  in  any  respect  the  habits  of  a  strolling 
player  out  of  an  engagement.  And  yet  he  knew  that 
his  daughter  was  dying:  the  doctor  had  told  him  so. 
Moreover,  it  had  been  a  terrible  blow  to  him,  for,  at 
heart,  he  loved  his  child  dearly;  but  in  that  singular 
nature  the  most  sincere  and  the  most  genuine  feelings 
adopted  a  false  and  unnatural  mode  of  expression,  by 
the  same  law  which  ordains  that,  when  a  shelf  is  placed 
awry,  nothing  that  you  place  upon  it  seems  to  stand 
straight. 

[232] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Delobelle's  natural  tendency  was,  before  everything, 
to  air  his  grief,  to  spread  it  abroad.  He  played  the  role 
of  the  unhappy  father  from  one  end  of  the  boulevard  to 
the  other.  He  was  always  to  be  found  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  theatres  or  at  the  actors'  restaurant,  with 
red  eyes  and  pale  cheeks.  He  loved  to  invite  the  ques- 
tion, "Well,  my  poor  old  fellow,  how  are  things  going 
at  home?"  Thereupon  he  would  shake  his  head  with 
a  nervous  gesture ;  his  grimace  held  tears  in  check,  his 
mouth  imprecations,  and  he  would  stab  heaven  with 
a  silent  glance,  overflowing  with  wrath,  as  when  he 
played  the  Medecin  des  Enjants;  all  of  which  did  not 
prevent  him,  however,  from  bestowing  the  most  delicate 
and  thoughtful  attentions  upon  his  daughter. 

He  also  maintained  an  unalterable  confidence  in 
himself,  no  matter  what  happened.  And  yet  his  eyes 
came  very  near  being  opened  to  the  truth  at  last.  A 
hot  little  hand  laid  upon  that  pompous,  illusion-ridden 
head  came  very  near  expelling  the  bee  that  had  been 
buzzing  there  so  long.    This  is  how  it  came  to  pass. 

One  night  Desiree  awoke  with  a  start,  in  a  very 
strange  state.  It  should  be  said  that  the  doctor,  when 
he  came  to  see  her  on  the  preceding  evening,  had  been 
greatly  surprised  to  find  her  suddenly  brighter  and 
calmer,  and  entirely  free  from  fever.  Without  attempt- 
ing to  explain  this  unhoped-for  resurrection,  he  had 
gone  away,  saying,  "Let  us  wait  and  see";  he  relied 
upon  the  power  of  youth  to  throw  off  disease,  upon  the 
resistless  force  of  the  life-giving  sap,  which  often  en- 
grafts a  new  life  upon  the  very  symptoms  of  death.  If 
he  had  looked  under  Desiree's  pillow,  he  would  have 

[233] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

found  there  a  letter  postmarked  Cairo,  wherein  lay  the 
secret  of  that  happy  change.  Four  pages  signed  by 
Frantz,  his  whole  conduct  confessed  and  explained  to 
his  dear  little  Zizi. 

It  was  the  very  letter  of  which  the  sick  girl  had 
dreamed.  If  she  had  dictated  it  herself,  all  the  phrases 
likely  to  touch  her  heart,  all  the  delicately  worded  ex- 
cuses likely  to  pour  balm  into  her  wounds,  would  have 
been  less  satisfactorily  expressed.  Frantz  repented, 
asked  forgiveness,  and  without  making  any  promises, 
above  all  without  asking  anything  from  her,  described 
to  his  faithful  friend  his  struggles,  his  remorse,  his  suf- 
ferings. 

What  a  misfortune  that  that  letter  had  not  arrived  a 
few  days  earlier.  Now,  all  those  kind  words  were  to 
Desiree  like  the  dainty  dishes  that  are  brought  too  late 
to  a  man  dying  of  hunger. 

Suddenly  she  awoke,  and,  as  we  said  a  moment  since, 
in  an  extraordinary  state. 

In  her  head,  which  seemed  to  her  lighter  than  usual, 
there  suddenly  began  a  grand  procession  of  thoughts 
and  memories.  The  most  distant  periods  of  her  past 
seemed  to  approach  her.  The  most  trivial  incidents  of 
her  childhood,  scenes  that  she  had  not  then  understood, 
words  heard  as  in  a  dream,  recurred  to  her  mind. 

From  her  bed  she  could  see  her  father  and  mother, 
one  by  her  side,  the  other  in  the  workroom,  the  door  of 
which  had  been  left  open.  Mamma  Delobelle  was  ly- 
ing back  in  her  chair  in  the  careless  attitude  of  long- 
continued  fatigue,  heeded  at  last;  and  all  the  scars,  the 
ugly  sabre  cuts  with  which  age  and  suffering  brand  the 

[234] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

faces  of  the  old,  manifested  themselves,  ineffaceable 
and  pitiful  to  see,  in  the  relaxation  of  slumber.  D6- 
sir^e  would  have  liked  to  be  strong  enough  to  rise  and 
kiss  that  lovely,  placid  brow,  furrowed  by  wrinkles  which 
did  not  mar  its  beauty. 

In  striking  contrast  to  that  picture,  the  illustrious 
Delobelle  appeared  to  his  daughter  through  the  open 
door  in  one  of  his  favorite  attitudes.  Seated  before  the 
little  white  cloth  that  bore  his  supper,  with  his  body  at 
an  angle  of  sixty-seven  and  a  half  degrees,  he  was  eating 
and  at  the  same  time  running  through  a  pamphlet 
which  rested  against  the  carafe  in  front  of  him. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Desiree  noticed  the  strik- 
ing lack  of  harmony  between  her  emaciated  mother, 
scantily  clad  in  little  black  dresses  which  made  her 
look  even  thinner  and  more  haggard  than  she  really 
was,  and  her  happy,  well-fed,  idle,  placid,  thoughtless 
father.  At  a  glance  she  realized  the  difference  between 
the  two  lives.  What  would  become  of  them  when  she 
was  no  longer  there?  Either  her  mother  would  work 
too  hard  and  would  kill  herself;  or  else  the  poor  woman 
would  be  obliged  to  cease  working  altogether,  and  that 
selfish  husband,  forever  engrossed  by  his  theatrical 
ambition,  would  allow  them  both  to  drift  gradually 
into  abject  poverty,  that  black  hole  which  widens  and 
deepens  as  one  goes  down  into  it. 

Suppose  that,  before  going  away — something  told 
her  that  she  would  go  very  soon — before  going  away, 
she  should  tear  away  the  thick  bandage  that  the  poor 
man  kept  over  his  eyes  wilfully  and  by  force  ? 

Only  a  hand  as  light  and  loving  as  hers  could  attempt 

[  235  ] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

that  operation.  Only  she  had  the  right  to  say  to  her 
father: 

"Earn  your  living.    Give  up  the  stage." 

Thereupon,  as  time  was  flying,  Desiree  Delobelle 
summoned  all  her  courage  and  called  softly: 

' '  Papa — papa ' ' 

At  his  daughter's  first  summons  the  great  man  hur- 
ried to  her  side.  He  entered  Desiree's  bedroom,  ra- 
diant and  superb,  very  erect,  his  lamp  in  his  hand  and 
a  camellia  in  his  buttonhole. 

"Good  evening,  Zizi.    Aren't  you  asleep?" 

His  voice  had  a  joyous  intonation  that  produced  a 
strange  effect  amid  the  prevailing  gloom.  Desiree  mo- 
tioned to  him  not  to  speak,  pointing  to  her  sleeping 
mother. 

"Put  down  your  lamp — I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

Her  voice,  broken  by  emotion,  impressed  him;  and 
so  did  her  eyes,  for  they  seemed  larger  than  usual,  and 
were  lighted  by  a  piercing  glance  that  he  had  never 
seen  in  them. 

He  approached  with  something  like  awe. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Bichette?  Do  you  feel 
any  worse?" 

Desiree  replied  with  a  movement  of  her  little  pale 
face  that  she  felt  very  ill  and  that  she  wanted  to  speak 
to  him  very  close,  very  close.  When  the  great  man 
stood  by  her  pillow,  she  laid  her  burning  hand  on  the 
great  man's  arm  and  whispered  in  his  ear.  She  was 
very  ill,  hopelessly  ill.  She  realized  fully  that  sjie  bad 
not  long  to  live, 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"Then,  father,  you  will  be  left  alone  with  mamma. 
Don't  tremble  like  that.  You  knew  that  this  thing 
must  come,  yes,  that  it  was  very  near.  But  I  want  to 
tell  you  this.  When  I  am  gone,  I  am  terribly  afraid 
mamma  won't  be  strong  enough  to  support  the  family. 
Just  see  how  pale  and  exhausted  she  is." 

The  actor  looked  at  his  "sainted  wife,"  and  seemed 
greatly  surprised  to  find  that  she  did  really  look  so 
badly.  Then  he  consoled  himself  with  the  selfish  re- 
mark: 

"She  never  was  very  strong." 

That  remark  and  the  tone  in  which  it  was  made 
angered  Desiree  and  strengthened  her  determination. 
She  continued,  without  pity  for  the  actor's  illusions: 

"What  will  become  of  you  two  when  I  am  no  longer 
here?  Oh!  I  know  that  you  have  great  hopes,  but  it 
takes  them  a  long  while  to  come  to  anything.  The  re- 
sults you  have  waited  for  so  long  may  not  arrive  for  a 
long  time  to  come;  and  until  then  what  will  you  do? 
Listen!  my  dear  father,  I  would  not  willingly  hurt 
you;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  at  your  age,  as  intelligent 
as  you  are,  it  would  be  easy  for  you — I  am  sure  Mon- 
sieur Risler  Aine  would  ask  nothing  better." 

She  spoke  slowly,  with  an  effort,  carefully  choosing 
her  words,  leaving  long  pauses  between  every  two  sen- 
tences, hoping  always  that  they  might  be  filled  by  a 
movement,  an  exclamation  from  her  father.  But  the 
actor  did  not  understand. 

"I  think  that  you  would  do  well,"  pursued  Desiree, 
timidly,  "  I  think  that  you  would  do  well  to  give  up " 

"  Eh  ?— what  ?— what's  that  ?  " 
[  237  ] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

She  paused  when  she  saw  the  effect  of  her  words. 
The  old  actor's  mobile  features  were  suddenly  con- 
tracted under  the  lash  of  violent  despair;  and  tears, 
genuine  tears  which  he  did  not  even  think  of  conceal- 
ing behind  his  hand  as  they  do  on  the  stage,  filled  his 
eyes  but  did  not  flow,  so  tightly  did  his  agony  clutch 
him  by  the  throat.  The  poor  devil  began  to  under- 
stand. 

She  murmured  twice  or  thrice : 

"To  give  up — to  give  up " 

Then  her  little  head  fell  back  upon  the  pillow,  and 
she  died  without  having  dared  to  tell  him  what  he 
would  do  well  to  give  up. 


[238] 


CHAPTER  XIX 


APPROACHING  CLOUDS 


NE  night,  near  the  end  of  January, 
old  Sigismond  Planus,  cashier  of  the 
house  of  Fromont  Jeune  and  Risler 
Aine,  was  awakened  with  a  start  in 
his  little  house  at  Montrouge  by  the 
same  teasing  voice,  the  same  rattling 
of  chains,  followed  by  that  fatal  cry: 
"The  notes!" 
"That  is  true,"  thought  the  worthy  man,  sitting  up 
in  bed;   "day  after  to-morrow  will  be  the  last  day  of 
the  month.    And  I  have  the  courage  to  sleep!" 

In  truth,  a  considerable  sum  of  money  must  be 
raised:  a  hundred  thousand  francs  to  be  paid  on  two 
obligations,  and  at  a  moment  when,  for  the  first  time 
in  thirty  years,  the  strong-box  of  the  house  of  Fromont 
was  absolutely  empty.  What  was  to  be  done?  Sigis- 
mond had  tried  several  times  to  speak  to  Fromont 
Jeune,  but  he  seemed  to  shun  the  burdensome  respon- 
sibility of  business,  and  when  he  walked  through  the 
offices  was  always  in  a  hurry,  feverishly  excited,  and 
seemed  neither  to  see  nor  hear  anything  about  him. 
He  answered  the  old  cashier's  anxious  questions,  gnaw- 
ing his  moustache : 

[239] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"All  right,  all  right,  my  old  Planus.  Don't  disturb 
yourself;  I  will  look  into  it."  And  as  he  said  it,  he 
seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something  else,  to  be  a  thou- 
sand leagues  away  from  his  surroundings.  It  was  ru- 
mored in  the  factory,  where  his  liaison  with  Madame 
Risler  was  no  longer  a  secret  to  anybody,  that  Sidonie 
deceived  him,  made  him  very  unhappy;  and,  indeed, 
his  mistress's  whims  worried  him  much  more  than  his 
cashier's  anxiety.  As  for  Risler,  no  one  ever  saw  him; 
he  passed  his  days  shut  up  in  a  room  under  the  roof, 
overseeing  the  mysterious,  interminable  manufacture 
of  his  machines. 

This  indifference  on  the  part  of  the  employers  to  the 
affairs  of  the  factory,  this  absolute  lack  of  oversight, 
had  led  by  slow  degrees  to  general  demoralization. 
Some  business  was  still  done,  because  an  established 
house  will  go  on  alone  for  years  by  force  of  the  first  im- 
petus; but  what  ruin,  what  chaos  beneath  that  appar- 
ent prosperity  ? 

Sigismond  knew  it  better  than  any  one,  and  as  if  to 
see  his  way  more  clearly  amid  the  multitude  of  painful 
thoughts  which  whirled  madly  through  his  brain,  the 
cashier  lighted  his  candle,  sat  down  on  his  bed,  and 
thought,  "Where  were  they  to  find  that  hundred  thou- 
sand francs?" 

"Take  the  notes  back.  I  have  no  funds  to  meet 
them." 

No,  no!  That  was  not  possible.  Any  sort  of  humil- 
iation was  preferable  to  that. 

"Well,  it's  decided.  I  will  go  to-morrow,"  sighed 
the  poor  cashier. 

[240] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

And  he  tossed  about  in  torture,  unable  to  close  an 
eye  until  morning. 

Notwithstanding  the  late  hour,  Georges  Fromont 
had  not  yet  retired.  He  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  with 
his  head  in  his  hands,  in  the  blind  and  dumb  concen- 
tration due  to  irreparable  misfortune,  thinking  of  Si- 
donie,  of  that  terrible  Sidonie  who  was  asleep  at  that 
moment  on  the  floor  above.  She  was  positively  driv- 
ing him  mad.  She  was  false  to  him,  he  was  sure  of  it, 
— she  was  false  to  him  with  the  Toulousan  tenor,  that 
Cazabon,  alias  Cazaboni,  whom  Madame  Dobson  had 
brought  to  the  house.  For  a  long  time  he  had  implored 
her  not  to  receive  that  man;  but  Sidonie  would  not 
listen  to  him,  and  on  that  very  day,  speaking  of  a 
grand  ball  she  was  about  to  give,  she  had  declared 
explicitly  that  nothing  should  prevent  her  inviting  her 
tenor. 

"Then  he's  your  lover!"  Georges  had  exclaimed 
angrily,  his  eyes  gazing  into  hers. 

She  had  not  denied  it ;  she  had  not  even  turned  her 
eyes  away. 

And  to  think  that  he  had  sacrificed  everything  to 
that  woman — his  fortune,  his  honor,  even  his  lovely 
Claire,  who  lay  sleeping  with  her  child  in  the  adjoining 
room — a  whole  lifetime  of  happiness  within  reach  of 
his  hand,  which  he  had  spumed  for  that  vile  creature! 
Now  she  had  admitted  that  she  did  not  love  him,  that 
she  loved  another.  And  he,  the  coward,  still  longed 
for  her.  In  heaven's  name,  what  potion  bad  she  given 
him? 

j6  [  241  ] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Carried  away  by  indignation  that  made  the  blood 
boil  in  his  veins,  Georges  Fromont  started  from  his 
armchair  and  strode  feverishly  up  and  down  the  room, 
his  footsteps  echoing  in  the  silence  of  the  sleeping  house 
like  living  insomnia.  The  other  was  asleep  upstairs. 
She  could  sleep  by  favor  of  her  heedless,  remorseless 
nature.  Perhaps,  too,  she  was  thinking  of  her  Caza- 
boni. 

When  that  thought  passed  through  his  mind,  Georges 
had  a  mad  longing  to  go  up,  to  wake  Risler,  to  tell  him 
everything  and  destroy  himself  with  her.  Really  that 
deluded  husband  was  too  idiotic!  Why  did  he  not 
watch  her  more  closely?  She  was  pretty  enough,  yes, 
and  vicious  enough,  too,  for  every  precaution  to  be  taken 
with  her. 

And  it  was  while  he  was  struggling  amid  such  cruel 
and  unfruitful  reflections  as  these  that  the  devil  of 
anxiety  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"The  notes!  the  notes!" 

The  miserable  wretch!  In  his  wrath  he  had  entirely 
forgotten  them.  And  yet  he  had  long  watched  the 
approach  of  that  terrible  last  day  of  January.  How 
many  times,  beween  two  assignations,  when  his  mind, 
free  for  a  moment  from  thoughts  of  Sidonie,  recurred 
to  his  business,  to  the  realities  of  life — how  many  times 
had  he  said  to  himself,  "That  day  will  be  the  end  of 
everything!"  But,  as  with  all  those  who  live  in  the 
delirium  of  intoxication,  his  cowardice  convinced  him 
that  it  was  too  late  to  mend  matters,  and  he  returned 
more  quickly  and  more  determinedly  to  his  evil  courses, 
in  order  to  forget,  to  divert  his  thoughts, 

I  242] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

But  that  was  no  longer  possible.  He  saw  the  im- 
pending disaster  clearly,  in  its  full  meaning;  and  Sig- 
ismond  Planus's  wrinkled,  solemn  face  rose  before  him 
with  its  sharply  cut  features,  whose  absence  of  expres- 
sion softened  their  harshness,  and  his  light  German- 
Swiss  eyes,  which  had  haunted  him  for  many  weeks 
with  their  impassive  stare. 

Well,  no,  he  had  not  the  hundred  thousand  francs, 
nor  did  he  know  where  to  get  them. 

The  crisis  which,  a  few  hours  before,  seemed  to  him 
a  chaos,  an  eddying  whirl  in  which  he  could  see  noth- 
ing distinctly  and  whose  very  confusion  was  a  source 
of  hope,  appeared  to  him  at  that  moment  with  appalling 
distinctness.  An  empty  cash-box,  closed  doors,  notes 
protested,  ruin,  are  the  phantoms  he  saw  whichever  way 
he  turned.  And  when,  on  top  of  all  the  rest,  came  the 
thought  of  Sidonie's  treachery,  the  wretched,  desperate 
man,  finding  nothing  to  cling  to  in  that  shipwreck, 
suddenly  uttered  a  sob,  a  cry  of  agony,  as  if  appealing 
for  help  to  some  higher  power. 

" Georges,  Georges,  it  is  I.    What  is  the  matter?" 

His  wife  stood  before  him,  his  wife  who  now  waited 
for  him  every  night,  watching  anxiously  for  his  return 
from  the  club,  for  she  still  believed  that  he  passed  his 
evenings  there.  That  night  she  had  heard  him  walking 
very  late  in  his  room.  At  last  her  child  fell  asleep,  and 
Claire,  hearing  the  father  sob,  ran  to  him. 

Oh!  what  boundless,  though  tardy  remorse  over- 
whelmed him  when  he  saw  her  before  him,  so  deeply 
moved,  so  lovely  and  so  loving!  Yes,  she  was  in  very 
truth  the  true  companion,  the  faithful  friend.     How 

[243] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

could  he  have  deserted  her?  For  a  long,  long  time  he 
wept  upon  her  shoulder,  unable  to  speak.  And  it  was 
fortunate  that  he  did  not  speak,  for  he  would  have  told 
her  all,  all.  The  unhappy  man  felt  the  need  of  pouring 
out  his  heart — an  irresistible  longing  to  accuse  him- 
self, to  ask  forgiveness,  to  lessen  the  weight  of  the  re- 
morse that  was  crushing  him. 

She  spared  him  the  pain  of  uttering  a  word : 

"You  have  been  gambling,  have  you  not?  You  have 
lost — lost  heavily?" 

He  moved  his  head  affirmatively;  then,  when  he 
was  able  to  speak,  he  confessed  that  he  must  have  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  for  the  day  after  the  morrow, 
and  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  obtain  them. 

She  did  not  reproach  him.  She  was  one  of  those 
women  who,  when  face  to  face  with  disaster,  think  only 
of  repairing  it,  without  a  word  of  recrimination.  In- 
deed, in  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  blessed  this  mis- 
fortune which  brought  him  nearer  to  her  and  became 
a  bond  between  their  two  lives,  which  had  long  lain  so 
far  apart.  She  reflected  a  moment.  Then,  with  an 
effort  indicating  a  resolution  which  had  cost  a  bitter 
struggle,  she  said: 

"Not  all  is  lost  as  yet.  I  will  go  to  Savigny  to-mor- 
row and  ask  my  grandfather  for  the  money." 

He  would  never  have  dared  to  suggest  that  to  her. 
Indeed,  it  would  never  have  occurred  to  him.  She  was 
so  proud  and  old  Gardinois  so  hard !  Surely  that  was 
a  great  sacrifice  for  her  to  make  for  him,  and  a  striking 
proof  of  her  love. 

"Claire,  Claire — how  good  your  are!"  he  said. 
[244] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Without  replying,  she  led  him  to  their  child's  cradle. 

"Kiss  her,"  she  said  softly;  and  as  they  stood  there 
side  by  side,  their  heads  leaning  over  the  child,  Georges 
was  afraid  of  waking  her,  and  he  embraced  the  mother 
passionately. 


[2451 


CHAPTER  XX 


REVELATIONS 


JH!  here's  Sigismond.  How  goes  the 
world,  Pere  Sigismond  ?  How  is  busi- 
ness?   Is  it  good  with  you  ?  " 

The  old  cashier  smiled  affably, 
shook  hands  with  the  master,  his 
wife,  and  his  brother,  and,  as  they 
talked,  looked  curiously  about.  They 
were  in  a  manufactory  of  wall-papers 
on  Faubourg  Saint- Antoine,  the  establishment  of  the 
little  Prochassons,  who  were  beginning  to  be  formidable 
rivals.  Those  former  employes  of  the  house  of  Fro- 
mont  had  set  up  on  their  own  account,  beginning  in  a 
very  small  way,  and  had  gradually  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing for  themselves  a  place  on  'Change.  Fromont  the 
uncle  had  assisted  them  for  a  long  while  with  his  credit 
and  his  money ;  the  result  being  most  friendly  relations 
between  the  two  firms,  and  a  balance — between  ten 
or  fifteen  thousand  francs — which  had  never  been 
definitely  adjusted,  because  they  knew  that  money  was 
in  good  hands  when  the  Prochassons  had  it. 

Indeed,  the  appearance  of  the  factory  was  most  re- 
assuring. The  chimneys  proudly  shook  their  plumes 
of  smoke.    The  dull  roar  of  constant  toil  indicated  that 

[246] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

the  workshops  were  full  of  workmen  and  activity.  The 
buildings  were  in  good  repair,  the  windows  clean; 
everything  had  an  aspect  of  enthusiasm,  of  good- 
humor,  of  discipline;  and  behind  the  grating  in  the 
counting-room  sat  the  wife  of  one  of  the  brothers,  sim- 
ply dressed,  with  her  hair  neatly  arranged,  and  an  air 
of  authority  on  her  youthful  face,  deeply  intent  upon  a 
long  column  of  figures. 

Old  Sigismond  thought  bitterly  of  the  difference  be- 
tween the  house  of  Fromont,  once  so  wealthy,  now 
living  entirely  upon  its  former  reputation,  and  the  ever- 
increasing  prosperity  of  the  establishment  before  his 
eyes.  His  stealthy  glance  penetrated  to  the  darkest 
comers,  seeking  some  defect,  something  to  criticise; 
and  his  failure  to  find  anything  made  his  heart  heavy 
and  his  smile  forced  and  anxious. 

What  embarrassed  him  most  of  all  was  the  question 
how  he  should  approach  the  subject  of  the  money  due 
his  employers  without  betraying  the  emptiness  of  the 
strong-box.  The  poor  man  assumed  a  jaunty,  uncon- 
cerned air  which  was  truly  pitiful  to  see.  Business  was 
good — very  good.  He  happened  to  be  passing  through 
the  quarter  and  thought  he  would  come  in  a  moment 
— that  was  natural,  was  it  not?  One  likes  to  see  old 
friends. 

But  these  preambles,  these  constantly  expanding 
circumlocutions,  did  not  bring  him  to  the  point  he 
wished  to  reach;  on  the  contrary,  they  led  him  away 
from  his  goal,  and  imagining  that  he  detected  surprise 
in  the  eyes  of  his  auditors,  he  went  completely  astray, 
stammered,  lost  his  head,  and,  as  a  last  resort,  took  his 

[  247  j 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

hat  and  pretended  to  go.    At  the  door  he  suddenly  be- 
thought himself: 

"Ah!  by  the  way,  so  long  as  I  am  here " 

He  gave  a  little  wink  which  he  thought  sly,  but  which 
was  in  reality  heartrending. 

''So  long  as  I  am  here,  suppose  we  settle  that  old 
account." 

The  two  brothers  and  the  young  woman  in  the 
counting-room  gazed  at  one  another  a  second,  unable 
to  understand. 

"Account?    What  account,  pray?" 

Then  all  three  began  to  laugh  at  the  same  moment, 
and  heartily  too,  as  if  at  a  joke,  a  rather  broad  joke,  on 
the  part  of  the  old  cashier.  "  Go  along  with  you,  you 
sly  old  Pere  Planus!"  The  old  man  laughed  with 
them !  He  laughed  without  any  desire  to  laugh,  simply 
to  do  as  the  others  did. 

At  last  they  explained.  Fromont  Jeune  had  come 
in  person,  six  months  before,  to  collect  the  balance  in 
their  hands. 

Sigismond  felt  that  his  strength  was  going.  But  he 
summoned  courage  to  say: 

"Ah!  yes;  true.  I  had  forgotten.  Sigismond  Pla- 
nus is  growing  old,  that  is  plain.  I  am  failing,  my  chil- 
dren, I  am  failing." 

And  the  old  man  went  away  wiping  his  eyes,  in  which 
still  glistened  great  tears  caused  by  the  hearty  laugh  he 
had  just  enjoyed.  The  young  people  behind  him  ex- 
changed glances  and  shook  their  heads.  They  under- 
stood. 

The  blow  he  had  received  was  so  crushing  that  the 
[248] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

cashier,  as  soon  as  he  was  out-of-doors,  was  obliged  to 
sit  down  on  a  bench.  So  that  was  the  reason  why 
Georges  did  not  come  to  the  counting-room  for  money. 
He  made  his  collections  in  person.  What  had  taken 
place  at  the  Prochassons'  had  probably  been  repeated 
everywhere  else.  It  was  quite  useless,  therefore,  for 
him  to  subject  himself  to  further  humiliation.  Yes, 
but  the  notes,  the  notes! — that  thought  renewed  his 
strength.  He  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead 
and  started  once  more  to  try  his  luck  with  a  customer 
in  the  faubourg.  But  this  time  he  took  his  precautions 
and  called  to  the  cashier  from  the  doorway,  without 
entering : 

"Good-morning,  Pere  So-and-So.  I  want  to  ask 
you  a  question." 

He  held  the  door  half  open,  his  hand  upon  the  knob. 

"When  did  we  settle  our  last  bill?  I  forgot  to  enter 
it." 

Oh!  it  was  a  long  while  ago,  a  very  long  while,  that 
their  last  bill  was  settled.  Fromont  Jeune's  receipt 
was  dated  in  September.    It  was  five  months  ago. 

The  door  was  hastily  closed.  Another!  Evidently 
it  would  be  the  same  thing  everywhere. 

"Ah!  Monsieur  Chorche,  Monsieur  Chorche,"  mut- 
tered poor  Sigismond;  and  while  he  pursued  his  jour- 
ney, with  bowed  head  and  trembling  legs,  Madame 
Fromont  Jeune's  carriage  passed  him  close,  on  its  way 
to  the  Orleans  station;  but  Claire  did  not  see  old 
Planus,  any  more  than  she  had  seen,  when  she  left  her 
house  a  few  moments  earlier.  Monsieur  Chebe  in  his 
long  frock-coat  and  the  illustrious  Delobelle  in  his 

[249] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

stovepipe  hat,  turning  into  the  Rue  des  Vieilles-Hau- 
driettes  at  opposite  ends,  each  with  the  factory  and 
Risler's  wallet  for  his  objective  point.  The  young 
woman  was  much  too  deeply  engrossed  by  what  she 
had  before  her  to  look  into  the  street. 

Think  of  it!  It  was  horrible.  To  go  and  ask  M. 
Gardinois  for  a  hundred  thousand  francs — M.  Gar- 
dinois,  a  man  who  boasted  that  he  had  never  borrowed 
or  loaned  a  sou  in  his  life,  who  never  lost  an  oppor- 
tunity to  tell  how,  on  one  occasion,  being  driven  to  ask 
his  father  for  forty  francs  to  buy  a  pair  of  trousers,  he 
had  repaid  the  loan  in  small  amounts.  In  his  dealings 
with  everybody,  even  with  his  children,  M.  Gardinois 
followed  those  traditions  of  avarice  which  the  earth, 
the  cruel  earth,  often  ungrateful  to  those  who  till  it, 
seems  to  inculcate  in  all  peasants.  The  old  man  did 
not  intend  that  any  part  of  his  colossal  fortune  should 
go  to  his  children  during  his  lifetime. 

"They'll  find  my  property  when  I  am  dead,"  he 
often  said. 

Acting  upon  that  principle,  he  had  married  off  his 
daughter,  the  elder  Madame  Fromont,  without  one  sou 
of  dowry,  and  he  never  forgave  his  son-in-law  for  hav- 
ing made  a  fortune  without  assistance  from  him.  For 
it  was  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  that  nature,  made  up 
of  vanity  and  selfishness  in  equal  parts,  to  wish  that 
every  one  he  knew  should  need  his  help,  should  bow 
before  his  wealth.  When  the  Fromonts  expressed  in 
his  presence  their  satisfaction  at  the  prosperous  turn 
their  business  was  beginning  to  take,  his  sharp,  cun- 
ning, little  blue  eye  would  smile  ironically,  and  he 

[250] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

would  growl,  "We  shall  see  what  it  all  comes  to  in  the 
end,"  in  a  tone  that  made  them  tremble.  Sometimes, 
too,  at  Savigny,  in  the  evening,  when  the  park,  the 
avenues,  the  blue  slates  of  the  chateau,  the  red  brick 
of  the  stables,  the  ponds  and  brooks  shone  resplen- 
dent, bathed  in  the  golden  glory  of  a  lovely  sunset,  this 
eccentric  parvenu  would  say  aloud  before  his  children, 
after  looking  about  him : 

"The  one  thing  that  consoles  me  for  dying  some  day 
is  that  no  one  in  the  family  will  ever  be  rich  enough  to 
keep  a  chateau  that  costs  fifty  thousand  francs  a  year 
to  maintain." 

And  yet,  with  that  latter-day  tenderness  which  even 
the  sternest  grandfathers  find  in  the  depths  of  their 
hearts,  old  Gardinois  would  gladly  have  made  a  pet 
of  his  granddaughter.  But  Claire,  even  as  a  child,  had 
felt  an  invincible  repugnance  for  the  former  peasant's 
hardness  of  heart  and  vainglorious  selfishness.  And 
when  affection  forms  no  bonds  between  those  who  are 
separated  by  difference  in  education,  such  repugnance 
is  increased  by  innumerable  trifles.  When  Claire  mar- 
ried Georges,  the  grandfather  said  to  Madame  Fro- 
mont : 

"If  your  daughter  wishes,  I  will  give  her  a  royal 
present;  but  she  must  ask  for  it." 

But  Claire  received  nothing,  because  she  would  not 
ask  for  anything. 

Wiat  a  bitter  humiliation  to  come,  three  years  later, 
to  beg  a  hundred  thousand  francs  from  the  generosity 
she  had  formerly  spurned,  to  humble  herself,  to  face 
the  endless  sermons,  the  sneering  raillery,  the  whole 

C=50 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

seasoned  with  Berrichon  jests,  with  phrases  smacking 
of  the  soil,  with  the  taunts,  often  well-deserved,  which 
narrow,  but  logical,  minds  can  utter  on  occasion,  and 
which  sting  with  their  vulgar  patois  like  an  insult  from 
an  inferior! 

Poor  Claire!  Her  husband  and  her  father  were  about 
to  be  humiliated  in  her  person.  She  must  necessarily 
confess  the  failure  of  the  one,  the  downfall  of  the  house 
which  the  other  had  founded  and  of  which  he  had  been 
so  proud  while  he  lived.  The  thought  that  she  would 
be  called  upon  to  defend  all  that  she  loved  best  in  the 
world  made  her  strong  and  weak  at  the  same  time. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  she  reached  Savigny. 
As  she  had  given  no  warning  of  her  visit,  the  carriage 
from  the  chateau  was  not  at  the  station,  and  she  had 
no  choice  but  to  walk. 

It  was  a  cold  morning  and  the  roads  were  dry  and 
hard.  The  north  wind  blew  freely  across  the  arid 
fields  and  the  river,  and  swept  unopposed  through  the 
leafless  trees  and  bushes.  The  chateau  appeared  under 
the  low-hanging  clouds,  with  its  long  line  of  low  walls 
and  hedges  separating  it  from  the  surrounding  fields. 
The  slates  on  the  roof  were  as  dark  as  the  sky  they  re- 
flected; and  that  magnificent  summer  residence,  com- 
pletely transformed  by  the  bitter,  silent  winter,  without 
a  leaf  on  its  trees  or  a  pigeon  on  its  roofs,  showed  no  life 
save  in  its  rippling  brooks  and  the  murmuring  of  the 
tall  poplars  as  they  bowed  majestically  to  one  another, 
shaking  the  magpies'  nests  hidden  among  their  high- 
est branches. 

At  a  distance  Claire  fancied  that  the  home  of  her 
[252] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

youth  wore  a  surly,  depressed  air.  It  seemed  to  hei 
that  Savigny  watched  her  approach  with  the  cold,  aris- 
tocratic expression  which  it  assumed  for  passengers  on 
the  highroad,  who  stopped  at  the  iron  bars  of  its  gate- 
ways. 

Oh!  the  cruel  aspect  of  everything! 

And  yet  not  so  cruel  after  all.  For,  with  its  tightly 
closed  exterior,  Savigny  seemed  to  say  to  her,  "Be- 
gone— do  not  come  in!"  And  if  she  had  chosen  to 
listen,  Claire,  renouncing  her  plan  of  speaking  to  her 
grandfather,  would  have  returned  at  once  to  Paris  to 
maintain  the  repose  of  her  life.  But  she  did  not  un- 
derstand, poor  child!  and  already  the  great  New- 
foundland dog,  who  had  recognized  her,  came  leap- 
ing through  the  dead  leaves  and  sniffed  at  the  gate. 

"Good-morning,  Fran^oise.  Where  is  grandpapa?" 
the  young  woman  asked  the  gardener's  wife,  who  came 
to  open  the  gate,  fawning  and  false  and  trembling,  like 
all  the  servants  at  the  chateau  when  they  felt  that  the 
master's  eye  was  upon  them. 

Grandpapa  was  in  his  office,  a  little  building  inde- 
pendent of  the  main  house,  where  he  passed  his  days 
fumbling  among  boxes  and  pigeonholes  and  great  books 
with  green  backs,  with  the  rage  for  bureaucracy  due 
to  his  early  ignorance  and  the  strong  impression  made 
upon  him  long  before  by  the  office  of  the  notary  in  his 
village. 

At  that  moment  he  was  closeted  there  with  his  keeper, 
a  sort  of  country  spy,  a  paid  informer  who  apprised  him 
as  to  all  that  was  said  and  done  in  the  neighborhood. 

He  was  the  master's  favorite.  His  name  was  Foui- 
[253] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

nat  (polecat),  and  he  had  the  flat,  crafty,  blood-thirsty 
face  appropriate  to  his  name. 

When  Claire  entered,  pale  and  trembling  under  her 
furs,  the  old  man  understood  that  something  serious 
and  unusual  had  happened,  and  he  made  a  sign  to 
Fouinat,  who  disappeared,  gliding  through  the  half- 
open  door  as  if  he  were  entering  the  very  wall. 

"What's  the  matter,  little  one?  Why,  you're  all 
perlutee,''^  said  the  grandfather,  seated  behind  his  huge 
desk. 

Perlute,  in  the  Berrichon  dictionary,  signifies  troubled, 
excited,  upset,  and  applied  perfectly  to  Claire's  condi- 
tion. Her  rapid  walk  in  the  cold  country  air,  the  effort 
she  had  made  in  order  to  do  what  she  was  doing,  im- 
parted an  unwonted  expression  to  her  face,  which  was 
much  less  reserved  than  usual.  Without  the  slightest 
encouragement  on  his  part,  she  kissed  him  and  seated 
herself  in  front  of  the  fire,  where  old  stumps,  surrounded 
by  dry  moss  and  pine  needles  picked  up  in  the  paths, 
were  smouldering  with  occasional  outbursts  of  life  and 
the  hissing  of  sap.  She  did  not  even  take  time  to  shake 
off  the  frost  that  stood  in  beads  on  her  veil,  but  began 
to  speak  at  once,  faithful  to  her  resolution  to  state  the 
object  of  her  visit  immediately  upon  entering  the  room, 
before  she  allowed  herself  to  be  intimidated  by  the  at- 
mosphere of  fear  and  respect  which  encompassed  the 
grandfather  and  made  of  him  a  sort  of  awe-inspiring 
deity. 

She  required  all  her  courage  not  to  become  confused, 
not  to  interrupt  her  narrative  before  that  piercing  gaze 
which  transfixed  her,  enlivened  from  her  first  words  by 

[254] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

a  malicious  joy,  before  that  savage  mouth  whose  comers 
seemed  tightly  closed  by  premeditated  reticence,  obsti- 
nacy, a  denial  of  any  sort  of  sensibility.  She  went  on 
to  the  end  in  one  speech,  respectful  without  humility, 
concealmg  her  emotion,  steadying  her  voice  by  the  coA- 
sciousness  of  the  truth  of  her  story.  Really,  seeing 
them  thus  face  to  face,  he  cold  and  calm,  stretched  out 
in  his  armchair,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his 
gray  swansdown  waistcoat,  she  carefully  choosing  her 
words,  as  if  each  of  them  might  condemn  or  absohe 
her,  you  would  never  have  said  that  it  was  a  child 
before  her  grandfather,  but  an  accused  person  before 
an  examining  magistrate. 

His  thoughts  were  entirely  engrossed  by  the  joy,  the 
pride  of  his  triumph.  So  they  were  conquered  at  last, 
those  proud  upstarts  of  Fromonts!  So  they  needed  old 
Gardinois  at  last,  did  they?  Vanity,  his  dominating 
passion,  overflowed  in  his  whole  manner,  do  what  he 
would.  When  she  had  finished,  he  took  the  floor  in 
his  turn,  began  naturally  enough  with  "I  was  sure  of 
it — I  always  said  so — I  knew  we  should  see  what  it 
would  all  come  to" — and  continued  in  the  same  vul- 
gar, insulting  tone,  ending  with  the  declaration  that, 
in  view  of  his  principles,  which  were  well  known  in  the 
family,  he  would  not  lend  a  sou. 

Then  Claire  spoke  of  her  child,  of  her  husband's 
name,  which  was  also  her  father's,  and  which  would 
be  dishonored  by  the  failure.  The  old  man  was  as  cold, 
as  implacable  as  ever,  and  took  advantage  of  her  hu- 
miliation to  humiliate  her  still  more;  for  he  b  longed 
to  the  race  of  worthy  rustics  who,  when  their  enemy  is 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

down,  never  leave  him  without  leaving  on  his  face  the 
marks  of  the  nails  in  their  sabots. 

''AH  I  can  say  to  you,  little  one,  is  that  Savigny  is 
open  to  you.  Let  your  husband  come  here.  I  happen 
to  need  a  secretary.  Very  well,  Georges  can  do  my 
writing  for  twelve  hundred  francs  a  year  and  board  for 
the  whole  family.    Offer  him  that  from  me,  and  come." 

She  rose  indignantly.  She  had  come  as  his  child  and 
he  had  received  her  as  a  beggar.  They  had  not  reached 
that  point  yet,  thank  God ! 

"Do  you  think  so?"  queried  M.  Gardinois,  with  a 
savage  light  in  his  eye. 

Claire  shuddered  and  walked  toward  the  door  with- 
out replying.    The  old  man  detained  her  with  a  gesture. 

"Take  care!  you  don't  know  what  you're  refusing. 
It  is  in  your  interest,  you  understand,  that  I  suggest 
bringing  your  husband  here.  You  don't  know  the  life 
he  is  leading  up  yonder.  Of  course  you  don't  know  it, 
or  you'd  never  come  and  ask  me  for  money  to  go  where 
yours  has  gone.  Ah!  I  know  all  about  your  man's 
affairs.  I  have  my  police  at  Paris,  yes,  and  at  Asnieres, 
as  well  as  at  Savigny.  I  know  what  the  fellow  does 
with  his  days  and  his  nights;  and  I  don't  choose  that 
my  crowns  shall  go  to  the  places  where  he  goes.  They're 
not  clean  enough  for  money  honestly  earned." 

Claire's  eyes  opened  wide  in  amazement  and  horror, 
for  she  felt  that  a  terrible  drama  had  entered  her  life  at 
that  moment  through  the  little  low  door  of  denuncia- 
tion.   The  old  man  continued  with  a  sneer: 

"That  little  Sidonie  has  fine,  sharp  teeth." 

"Sidonie!" 

[256] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"Faith,  yes,  to  be  sure.  I  have  told  you  the  name. 
At  all  events,  you'd  have  found  it  out  some  day  or 
other.  In  fact,  it's  an  astonishing  thing  that,  since  the 
time —  But  you  women  are  so  vain !  The  idea  that  a 
man  can  deceive  you  is  the  last  idea  to  come  into  your 
head.  Well,  yes,  Sidonie's  the  one  who  has  got  it  all 
out  of  him — with  her  husband's  consent,  by  the  way." 

He  went  on  pitilessly  to  tell  the  young  wife  the  source 
of  the  money  for  the  house  at  Asnieres,  the  horses,  the 
carriages,  and  how  the  pretty  little  nest  in  the  Avenue 
Gabriel  had  been  furnished.  He  explained  everything 
in  detail.  It  was  clear  that,  having  found  a  new  op- 
portunity to  exercise  his  mania  for  espionage,  he  had 
availed  himself  of  it  to  the  utmost;  perhaps,  too,  there 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all  a  vague,  carefully  concealed 
rage  against  his  little  Chebe,  the  anger  of  a  senile  pas- 
sion never  declared. 

Claire  listened  to  him  without  speaking,  with  a 
smile  of  incredulity.  That  smile  irritated  the  old  man, 
spurred  on  his  malice.  "Ah!  you  don't  believe  me. 
Ah!  you  want  proofs,  do  you?"  And  he  gave  her 
proofs,  heaped  them,  upon  her,  overpowered  her  with 
knife-thrusts  in  the  heart.  She  had  only  to  go  to 
Darches,  the  jeweller  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  A  fort- 
night before,  Georges  had  bought  a  diamond  necklace 
there  for  thirty  thousand  francs.  It  was  his  New 
Year's  gift  to  Sidonie.  Thirty  thousand  francs  for  dia- 
monds at  the  moment  of  becoming  bankrupt ! 

He  might  have  talked  the  entire  day  and  Claire  would 
not  have  interrupted  him.  She  felt  that  the  slightest 
efifort  would  cause  the  tears  that  filled  her  eyes  to  over- 
17  [257] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

flow,  and  she  was  determined  to  smile  to  the  end,  the 
sweet,  brave  woman.  From  time  to  time  she  cast  a 
sidelong  glance  at  the  road.  She  was  in  haste  to  go,  to 
fly  from  the  sound  of  that  spiteful  voice,  which  pur- 
sued her  pitilessly. 

At  last  he  ceased ;  he  had  told  the  whole  story.  She 
bowed  and  walked  toward  the  door. 

"Are  you  going?  What  a  hurry  you're  in!"  said  the 
grandfather,  following  her  outside. 

At  heart  he  was  a  little  ashamed  of  his  savagery. 

"Won't  you  breakfast  with  me?" 

She  shook  her  head,  not  having  strength  to  speak. 

"At  least  wait  till  the  carriage  is  ready — some  one 
will  drive  you  to  the  station." 

No,  still  no. 

And  she  walked  on,  with  the  old  man  close  behind 
her.  Proudly,  and  with  head  erect,  she  crossed  the 
courtyard,  filled  with  souvenirs  of  her  childhood,  with- 
out once  looking  behind.  And  yet  what  echoes  of 
hearty  laughter,  what  sunbeams  of  her  younger  days 
were  imprinted  in  the  tiniest  grain  of  gravel  in  that 
courtyard ! 

Her  favorite  tree,  her  favorite  bench,  were  still  in 
the  same  place.  She  had  not  a  glance  for  them,  nor 
for  the  pheasants  in  the  aviary,  nor  even  for  the  great 
dog  Kiss,  who  followed  her  docilely,  awaiting  the  caress 
whiph  she  did  not  give  him.  She  had  come  as  a  child  of 
the  house,  she  went  away  as  a  stranger,  her  mind  filled 
with  horrible  thoughts  which  the  slightest  reminder  of 
her  peaceful  and  happy  past  could  not  have  failed  to 
aggravate. 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"  Good-by,  grandfather." 

''Good-by,  then." 

And  the  gate  closed  upon  her  harshly.  As  soon  as 
she  was  alone,  she  began  to  walk  swiftly,  swiftly,  al- 
most to  run.  She  was  not  merely  going  away,  she  was 
escaping.  Suddenly,  when  she  reached  the  end  of  the 
wall  of  the  estate,  she  found  herself  in  front  of  the  little 
green  gate,  surrounded  by  nasturtiums  and  honey- 
suckle, where  the  chateau  mail-box  was.  She  stopped 
instinctively,  struck  by  one  of  those  sudden  awakenings 
of  the  memory  which  take  place  within  us  at  critical 
moments  and  place  before  our  eyes  with  wonderful 
clearness  of  outline  the  most  trivial  acts  of  our  lives 
bearing  any  relation  to  present  disasters  or  joys.  Was 
it  the  red  sun  that  suddenly  broke  forth  from  the  clouds, 
flooding  the  level  expanse  with  its  oblique  rays  in  that 
winter  afternoon  as  at  the  sunset  hour  in  August? 
Was  it  the  silence  that  surrounded  her,  broken  only  by 
the  harmonious  sounds  of  nature,  which  are  almost 
alike  at  all  seasons  ? 

Whatever  the  cause  she  saw  herself  once  more  as 
she  was,  at  that  same  spot,  three  years  before,  on  a 
certain  day  when  she  placed  in  the  post  a  letter  inviting 
Sidonie  to  come  and  pass  a  month  with  her  in  the  coun- 
try. Something  told  her  that  all  her  misfortunes  dated 
from  that  moment.  "Ah!  had  I  known — had  I  only 
known!"  And  she  fancied  that  she  could  still  feel  be- 
tween her  fingers  the  smooth  envelope,  ready  to  drop 
into  the  box. 

Thereupon,  as  she  reflected  what  an  innocent,  hope- 
ful, happy  child  she  was  at  that  moment,  she  cried  out 

[259] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

indignantly,  gentle  creature  that  she  was,  against  the 
injustice  of  life.  She  asked  herself :  "Why  is  it?  What 
have  I  done?" 

Then  she  suddenly  exclaimed:  "No!  it  isn't  true. 
It  can  not  be  possible.  Grandfather  lied  to  me."  And 
as  she  went  on  toward  the  station,  the  unhappy  girl 
tried  to  convince  herself,  to  make  herself  believe  what 
she  said.    But  she  did  not  succeed. 

The  truth  dimly  seen  is  like  the  veiled  sun,  which 
tires  the  eyes  far  more  than  its  most  brilliant  rays.  In 
the  semi-obscurity  which  still  enveloped  her  misfortune, 
the  poor  woman's  sight  was  keener  than  she  could 
have  wished.  Now  she  understood  and  accounted  for 
certain  peculiar  circumstances  in  her  husband's  life, 
his  frequent  absences,  his  restlessness,  his  embarrassed 
behavior  on  certain  days,  and  the  abundant  details 
which  he  sometimes  volunteered,  upon  returning  home, 
concerning  his  movements,  mentioning  names  as  proofs 
which  she  did  not  ask.  From  all  these  conjectures  the 
evidence  of  his  sin  was  made  up.  And  still  she  refused 
to  believe  it,  and  looked  forward  to  her  arrival  in  Paris 
to  set  her  doubts  at  rest. 

No  one  was  at  the  station,  a  lonely,  cheerless  little 
place,  where  no  traveller  ever  showed  his  face  in  winter. 
As  Claire  sat  there  awaiting  the  train,  gazing  vaguely 
at  the  station-master's  melancholy  little  garden,  and 
the  debris  of  climbing  plants  running  along  the  fences 
by  the  track,  she  felt  a  moist,  warm  breath  on  her  glove. 
It  was  her  friend  Kiss,  who  had  followed  her  and  was 
reminding  her  of  their  happy  romps  together  in  the  old 
days,  with  little  shakes  of  the  head,  short  leaps,  capers 

[260] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

of  joy  tempered  by  humility,  concluding  by  stretching 
his  beautiful  white  coat  at  full  length  at  his  mistress's 
feet,  on  the  cold  floor  of  the  waiting-room.  Those  hum- 
ble caresses  which  sought  her  out,  like  a  hesitating  offer 
of  devotion  and  sympathy,  caused  the  sobs  she  had  so 
long  restrained  to  break  forth  as  last.  But  suddenly  she 
felt  ashamed  of  her  weakness.  She  rose  and  sent  the 
dog  away,  sent  him  away  pitilessly  with  voice  and 
gesture,  pointing  to  the  house  in  the  distance,  with  a 
stem  face  which  poor  Kiss  had  never  seen.  Then  she 
hastily  wiped  her  eyes  and  her  moist  hands;  for  the 
train  for  Paris  w^as  approaching  and  she  knew  that  in  a 
moment  she  should  need  all  her  courage. 

Claire's  first  thought  on  leaving  the  train  was  to  take 
a  cab  and  drive  to  the  jeweller  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix, 
who  had,  as  her  grandfather  alleged,  supplied  Georges 
with  a  diamond  necklace.  If  that  should  prove  to  be 
true,  then  all  the  rest  was  true.  Her  dread  of  learning 
the  truth  was  so  great  that,  when  she  reached  her  des- 
tination and  alighted  in  front  of  that  magnificent  es- 
tablishment, she  stopped,  afraid  to  enter.  To  give 
herself  countenance,  she  pretended  to  be  deeply  inter- 
ested in  the  jewels  displayed  in  velvet  cases;  and  one 
who  had  seen  her,  quietly  but  fashionably  dressed, 
leaning  forward  to  look  at  that  gleaming  and  attractive 
display,  would  have  taken  her  for  a  happy  wife  engaged 
in  selecting  a  bracelet,  rather  than  an  anxious,  sorrow- 
stricken  soul  who  had  come  thither  to  discover  the 
secret  of  her  life. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  At  that  time 
of  day,  in  winter,  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  presents  a  truly 

[261] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

dazzling  aspect.  In  that  luxurious  neighborhood,  life 
moves  quickly  between  the  short  morning  and  the  early 
evening.  There  are  carriages  moving  swiftly  in  all 
directions,  a  ceaseless  rumbling,  and  on  the  sidewalks 
a  coquettish  haste,  a  rustling  of  silks  and  furs.  Winter 
is  the  real  Parisian  season.  To  see  that  devil's  own 
Paris  in  all  its  beauty  and  wealth  and  happiness  one 
must  watch  the  current  of  its  life  beneath  a  lowering 
sky,  heavy  with  snow.  Nature  is  absent  from  the  pic- 
ture, so  to  speak.  No  wind,  no  sunlight.  Just  enough 
light  for  the  dullest  colors,  the  faintest  reflections  to 
produce  an  admirable  effect,  from  the  reddish-gray 
tone  of  the  monuments  to  the  gleams  of  jet  which  be- 
spangle a  woman's  dress.  Theatre  and  concert  posters 
shine  resplendent,  as  if  illumined  by  the  effulgence  of 
the  footlights.  The  shops  are  crowded.  It  seems  that 
all  those  people  must  be  preparing  for  perpetual  festivi- 
ties. And  at  such  times,  if  any  sorrow  is  mingled  with 
that  bustle  and  tumult,  it  seems  the  more  terrible  for 
that  reason.  For  five  minutes  Claire  suffered  martyr- 
dom worse  than  death.  Yonder,  on  the  road  to  Sa- 
vigny,  in  the  vast  expanse  of  the  deserted  fields,  her 
despair  spread  out  as  it  were  in  the  sharp  air  and 
seemed  to  enfold  her  less  closely.  Here  she  was  stifling. 
The  voices  beside  her,  the  footsteps,  the  heedless  jos- 
tling of  people  who  passed,  all  added  to  her  torture. 

At  last  she  entered  the  shop. 

"Ah!  yes,  Madame,  certainly — Monsieur  Fromont. 
A  necklace  of  diamonds  and  roses.  We  could  make 
you  one  like  it  for  twenty-five  thousand  francs." 

That  was  five  thousand  less  than  for  him. 
[  262  ] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"Thanks,  Monsieur,"  said  Claire,  "I  will  think  it 
over." 

A  mirror  in  front  of  her,  in  which  she  saw  her  dark- 
ringed  eyes  and  her  deathly  pallor,  frightened  her. 
She  went  out  quickly,  walking  stiffly  in  order  not  to  fall. 

She  had  but  one  idea,  to  escape  from  the  street,  from 
the  noise;  to  be  alone,  quite  alone,  so  that  she  might 
plunge  headlong  into  that  abyss  of  heartrending 
thoughts,  of  black  things  dancing  madly  in  the  depths 
of  her  mind.  Oh!  the  coward,  the  infamous  villain! 
And  to  think  that  only  last  night  she  was  speaking 
comforting  words  to  him,  with  her  arms  about  him! 

Suddenly,  with  no  knowledge  of  how  it  happened, 
she  found  herself  in  the  courtyard  of  the  factory. 
Through  what  streets  had  she  come  ?  Had  she  come  in 
a  carriage  or  on  foot?  She  had  no  remembrance. 
She  had  acted  unconsciously,  as  in  a  dream.  The  sen- 
timent of  reality  returned,  pitiless  and  poignant,  when 
she  reached  the  steps  of  her  little  house.  Risler  was 
there,  superintending  several  men  who  were  carrying 
potted  plants  up  to  his  wife's  apartments,  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  magnificent  party  she  was  to  give  that  very 
evening.  With  his  usual  tranquillity  he  directed  the 
work,  protected  the  tall  branches  which  the  workmen 
might  have  broken:  "Not  like  that.  Bend  it  over. 
Take  care  of  the  carpet." 

The  atmosphere  of  pleasure  and  merry-making 
which  had  so  revolted  her  a  moment  before  pursued 
her  to  her  own  house.  It  was  too  much,  after  all  the 
rest!  She  rebelled;  and  as  Risler  saluted  her,  affec- 
tionately and  with  deep  respect  as  always,  her  face 

[263] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

assumed  an  expression  of  intense  disgust,  and  she 
passed  without  speaking  to  him,  without  seeing  the 
amazement  that  opened  his  great,  honest  eyes. 

From  that  moment  her  course  was  determined. 
Wrath,  a  wrath  born  of  uprightness  and  sense  of  jus- 
tice, guided  her  actions.  She  barely  took  time  to  kiss 
her  child's  rosy  cheeks  before  running  to  her  mother's 
room. 

"Come,  mamma,  dress  yourself  quickly.  We  are 
going  away.    We  are  going  away." 

The  old  lady  rose  slowly  from  the  armchair  in  which 
she  was  sitting,  busily  engaged  in  cleaning  her  watch- 
chain  by  inserting  a  pin  between  every  two  links  with 
infinite  care. 

''Come,  come,  hurry.    Get  your  things  ready." 

Her  voice  trembled,  and  the  poor  monomaniac's 
room  seemed  a  horrible  place  to  her,  all  glistening  as 
it  was  with  the  cleanliness  that  had  gradually  become 
a  mania.  She  had  reached  one  of  those  fateful  moments 
when  the  loss  of  one  illusion  causes  you  to  lose  them  all, 
enables  you  to  look  to  the  very  depths  of  human  mis- 
ery. The  realization  of  her  complete  isolation,  between 
her  half -mad  mother,  her  faithless  husband,  her  too 
young  child,  came  upon  her  for  the  first  time;  but  it 
served  only  to  strengthen  her  in  her  resolution. 

In  a  moment  the  whole  household  was  busily  en- 
gaged in  making  preparations  for  this  abrupt,  unex- 
pected departure.  Claire  hurried  the  bewildered  ser- 
vants, and  dressed  her  mother  and  the  child,  who 
laughed  merrily  amid  all  the  excitement.  She  was  in 
haste  to  go  before  Georges'  return,  so  that  he  might 

[264] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

find  the  cradle  empty  and  the  house  deserted.  Where 
should  she  go  ?  She  did  not  know  as  yet.  Perhaps  to 
her  aunt  at  Orleans,  perhaps  to  Savigny,  no  matter 
where.  What  she  must  do  first  of  all  was — go,  fly  from 
that  atmosphere  of  treachery  and  falsehood. 

At  that  moment  she  was  in  her  bedroom,  packing  a 
trunk,  making  a  pile  of  her  effects — a  heartrending 
occupation.  Every  object  that  she  touched  set  in  mo- 
tion whole  worlds  of  thoughts,  of  memories.  There  is 
so  much  of  ourselves  in  anything  that  we  use.  At  times 
the  odor  of  a  sachet-bag,  the  pattern  of  a  bit  of  lace, 
were  enough  to  bring  tears  to  her  eyes.  Suddenly  she 
heard  a  heavy  footstep  in  the  salon,  the  door  of  which 
was  partly  open ;  then  there  was  a  slight  cough,  as  if  to 
let  her  know  that  some  one  was  there.  She  supposed 
that  it  was  Risler :  for  no  one  else  had  the  right  to  en- 
ter her  apartments  so  unceremoniously.  The  idea  of 
having  to  endure  the  presence  of  that  hypocritical 
face,  that  false  smile,  was  so  distasteful  to  her  that  she 
rushed  to  close  the  door. 

"I  am  not  at  home  to  any  one." 

The  door  resisted  her  efforts,  and  Sigismond's  square 
head  appeared  in  the  opening. 

"It  is  I,  Madame,"  he  said  in  an  undertone.  "I 
have  come  to  get  the  money." 

"What  money?"  demanded  Claire,  for  she  no  long- 
er remembered  why  she  had  gone  to  Savigny. 

"Hush!  The  funds  to  meet  my  note  to-morrow. 
Monsieur  Georges,  when  he  went  out,  told  me  that  you 
would  hand  it  to  me  very  soon." 

"Ah!  yes — true.  The  hundred  thousand  francs. 
[265] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

I  haven't  them,  Monsieur  Planus;  I  haven't  any- 
thing." 

"Then,"  said  the  cashier,  in  a  strange  voice,  as 
if  he  were  speaking  to  himself,  "then  it  means 
failure." 

And  he  turned  slowly  away. 

Failure!  She  sank  on  a  chair,  appalled,  crushed. 
For  the  last  few  hours  the  downfall  of  her  happiness 
had  caused  her  to  forget  the  downfall  of  the  house; 
but  she  remembered  now. 

So  her  husband  was  ruined!  In  a  little  while,  when 
he  returned  home,  he  would  learn  of  the  disaster,  and 
he  would  learn  at  the  same  time  that  his  wife  and  child 
had  gone;  that  he  was  left  alone  in  the  midst  of  the 
wreck. 

Alone — that  weak,  easily  influenced  creature,  who 
could  only  weep  and  complain  and  shake  his  fist  at  life 
like  a  child!  What  would  become  of  the  miserable 
man? 

She  pitied  him,  notwithstanding  his  great  sin. 

Then  the  thought  came  to  her  that  she  would  per- 
haps seem  to  have  fled  at  the  approach  of  bankruptcy, 
of  poverty. 

Georges  might  say  to  himself: 

"Had  I  been  rich,  she  would  have  forgiven 
me!" 

Ought  she  to  allow  him  to  entertain  that  doubt  ? 

To  a  generous,  noble  heart  like  Claire's  nothing 
more  than  that  was  necessary  to  change  her  plans. 
Instantly  she  was  conscious  that  her  feeling  of  repug- 
nance, of  revolt,  began  to  grow  less  bitter,  and  a  sudden 

[266] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

ray  of  light  seemed  to  make  her  duty  clearer  to  her. 
When  they  came  to  tell  her  that  the  child  was  dressed 
and  the  trunks  ready,  her  mind  was  made  up  anew. 

"Never  mind,"  she  replied  gently.    "We  are  not  go- 
ing away." 


[267] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  DAY  OF  RECKONING 

'he  great  clock  of  Saint- Gervais  struck 
one  in  the  morning.  It  was  so  cold 
that  the  fine  snow,  flying  through 
the  air,  hardened  as  it  fell,  covering 
the  pavements  with  a  slippery,  white 
blanket. 

Risler,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  was 
hastening  home  from  the  brewery 
through  the  deserted  streets  of  the  Marais.  He  had 
been  celebrating,  in  company  with  his  two  faithful 
borrowers,  Chebe  and  Delobelle,  his  first  moment  of 
leisure,  the  end  of  that  almost  endless  period  of  seclusion 
during  which  he  had  been  superintending  the  manufac- 
ture of  his  press,  with  all  the  searchings,  the  joys,  and 
the  disappointments  of  the  inventor.  It  had  been  long, 
very  long.  At  the  last  moment  he  had  discovered  a 
defect.  The  crane  did  not  work  well ;  and  he  had  had 
to  revise  his  plans  and  drawings.  At  last,  on  that  very 
day,  the  new  machine  had  been  tried.  Everything  had 
succeeded  to  his  heart's  desire.  The  worthy  man  was 
triumphant.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  paid  a  debt, 
by  giving  the  house  of  Fromont  the  benefit  of  a  new 
machine,  which  would  lessen  the  labor,  shorten  the 
hours  of  the  workmen,  and  at  the  same  time  double 

[268] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

the  profits  and  the  reputation  of  the  factory.  He  in- 
dulged in  beautiful  dreams  as  he  plodded  along.  His 
footsteps  rang  out  proudly,  emphasized  by  the  resolute 
and  happy  trend  of  his  thoughts. 

Quickening  his  pace,  he  reached  the  comer  of  Rue 
des  Vieilles-Haudriettes.  A  long  line  of  carriages  was 
standing  in  front  of  the  factory,  and  the  light  of  their 
lanterns  in  the  street,  the  shadows  of  the  drivers  seek- 
ing shelter  from  the  snow  in  the  comers  and  angles 
that  those  old  buildings  have  retained  despite  the 
straightening  of  the  sidewalks,  gave  an  animated  aspect 
to  that  deserted,  silent  quarter. 

"Yes,  yes!  to  be  sure,"  thought  the  honest  fellow, 
"we  have  a  ball  at  our  house."  He  remembered  that 
Sidonie  was  giving  a  grand  musical  and  dancing  party, 
which  she  had  excused  him  from  attending,  by  the 
way,  knowing  that  he  was  very  busy. 

Shadows  passed  and  repassed  behind  the  fluttering 
veil  of  the  curtains;  the  orchestra  seemed  to  follow  the 
movements  of  those  stealthy  apparitions  with  the  rising 
and  falling  of  its  muffled  notes.  The  guests  were 
dancing.  Risler  let  his  eyes  rest  for  a  moment  on  that 
phantasmagoria  of  the  ball,  and  fancied  that  he  rec- 
ognized Sidonie's  shadow  in  a  small  room  adjoining 
the  salon. 

She  was  standing  erect  in  her  magnificent  costume, 
in  the  attitude  of  a  pretty  woman  before  her  mirror. 
A  shorter  shadow  behind  her,  Madame  Dobson  doubt- 
less, was  repairing  some  accident  to  the  costume,  retie- 
ing  the  knot  of  a  ribbon  tied  about  her  neck,  its  long 
ends  floating  down  to  the  flounces  of  the  train.    It  wa^ 

[269] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

all  very  indistinct,  but  the  woman's  graceful  figure  was 
recognizable  in  those  faintly  traced  outlines,  and  Risler 
tarried  long  admiring  her. 

The  contrast  on  the  first  floor  was  most  striking. 
There  was  no  hght  visible,  with  the  exception  of  a  little 
lamp  shining  through  the  lilae  hangings  of  the  bed- 
room. Risler  noticed  that  circumstance,  and  as  the 
little  girl  had  been  ailing  a  few  days  before,  he  felt 
anxious  about  her,  remembering  Madame  Georges' s 
strange  agitation  when  she  passed  him  so  hurriedly  in 
the  afternoon ;  and  he  retraced  his  steps  as  far  as  Pfere 
Achille's  lodge  to  inquire. 

The  lodge  was  full.  Coachmen  were  warming  them- 
selves around  the  stove,  chatting  and  laughing  amid 
the  smoke  from  their  pipes.  When  Risler  appeared 
there  was  profound  silence,  a  cunning,  inquisitive,  sig- 
nificant silence.  They  had  evidently  been  speaking 
of  him. 

"Is  the  Fromont  child  still  sick?"  he  asked. 

''No,  not  the  child.  Monsieur." 

"Monsieur  Georges  sick?" 

"Yes,  he  was  taken  when  he  came  home  to-night. 
I  went  right  off  to  get  the  doctor.  He  said  that  it 
wouldn't  amount  to  anything — that  all  Monsieur 
needed  was  rest." 

As  Risler  closed  the  door  Pere  Achille  added,  under 
his  breath,  with  the  half-fearful,  half-audacious  inso- 
lence of  an  inferior,  who  would  like  to  be  listened  to  and 
yet  not  distinctly  heard : 

"Ah!  dame,  they're  not  making  such  a  show  on  the 
first  floor  as  they  are  on  the  second." 

[270] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

This  is  what  had  happened. 

Fromont  Jeune,  on  returning  home  during  the  even- 
ing, had  found  his  wife  with  such  a  changed,  heart- 
broken face,  that  he  at  once  divined  a  catastrophe. 
But  he  had  become  so  accustomed  in  the  past  two  years 
to  sin  with  impunity  that  it  did  not  for  one  moment 
occur  to  him  that  his  wife  could  have  been  informed  of 
his  conduct.  Claire,  for  her  part,  to  avoid  humiliating 
him,  was  generous  enough  to  speak  only  of  Savigny. 

"Grandpapa  refused,"  she  said. 

The  miserable  man  turned  frightfully  pale. 

"I  am  lost — I  am  lost!"  he  muttered  two  or  three 
times  in  the  wild  accents  of  fever;  and  his  sleepless 
nights,  a  last  terrible  scene  which  he  had  had  with 
Sidonie,  trying  to  induce  her  not  to  give  this  party  on 
the  eve  of  his  downfall,  M.  Gardinois'  refusal,  all  these 
maddening  things  which  followed  so  closely  on  one 
another's  heels  and  had  agitated  him  terribly,  cul- 
minated in  a  genuine  nervous  attack.  Claire  took  pity 
on  him,  put  him  to  bed,  and  established  herself  by  his 
side ;  but  her  voice  had  lost  that  affectionate  intonation 
which  soothes  and  persuades.  There  was  in  her  ges- 
tures, in  the  way  in  which  she  arranged  the  pillow 
under  the  patient's  head  and  prepared  a  quieting 
draught,  a  strange  indifference,  listlessness. 

"But  I  have  ruined  you!"  Georges  said  from  time  to 
time,  as  if  to  rouse  her  from  that  apathy  which  made 
him  uncomfortable.  She  replied  with  a  proud,  dis- 
dainful gesture.    Ah!  if  he  had  done  only  that  to  her! 

At  last,  however,  his  nerves  became  calmer,  the  fever 
subsided,  and  he  fell  asleep. 

[271] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

She  remained  to  attend  to  his  wants. 

"It  is  my  duty,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Her  duty.  She  had  reached  that  point  with  the  man 
whom  she  had  adored  so  bhndly,  with  the  hope  of  a 
long  and  happy  life  together. 

At  that  moment  the  ball  in  Sidonie's  apartments 
began  to  become  very  animated.  The  ceiling  trem- 
bled rhythmically,  for  Madame  had  had  all  the  carpets 
removed  from  her  salons  for  the  greater  comfort  of  the 
dancers.  Sometimes,  too,  the  sound  of  voices  reached 
Claire's  ears  in  waves,  and  frequent  tumultuous 
applause,  from  which  one  could  divine  the  great  num- 
ber of  the  guests,  the  crowded  condition  of  the  rooms. 

Claire  was  lost  in  thought.  She  did  not  waste  time 
in  regrets,  in  fruitless  lamentations.  She  knew  that 
life  was  inflexible  and  that  all  the  arguments  in  the 
world  will  not  arrest  the  cruel  logic  of  its  inevitable 
progress.  She  did  not  ask  herself  how  that  man  had 
succeeded  in  deceiving  her  so  long — how  he  could  have 
sacrificed  the  honor  and  happiness  of  his  family  for  a 
mere  caprice.  That  was  the  fact,  and  all  her  reflections 
could  not  wipe  it  out,  could  not  repair  the  irreparable. 
The  subject  that  engrossed  her  thoughts  was  the  future. 
A  new  existence  was  unfolding  before  her  eyes,  dark, 
cruel,  full  of  privation  and  toil;  and,  strangely  enough, 
the  prospect  of  ruin,  instead  of  terrifying  her,  restored 
all  her  courage.  The  idea  of  the  change  of  abode  made 
necessary  by  the  economy  they  would  be  obliged  to 
practise,  of  work  made  compulsory  for  Georges  and 
perhaps  for  herself,  infused  an  indefinable  energy  into 
the  distressing  calmness  of  her  despair.    What  a  heavy 

[  272 1 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

burden  of  souls  she  would  have  with  her  three  children: 
her  mother,  her  child,  and  her  husband!  The  feeling 
of  responsibility  prevented  her  giving  way  too  much 
to  her  misfortune,  to  the  wreck  of  her  love;  and  in 
proportion  as  she  forgot  herself  in  the  thought  of  the 
weak  creatures  she  had  to  protect  she  realized  more 
fully  the  meaning  of  the  word  "sacrifice,"  so  vague 
en  careless  lips,  so  serious  when  it  becomes  a  rule 
of  life. 

Such  were  the  poor  woman's  thoughts  during  that 
sad  vigil,  a  vigil  of  arms  and  tears,  while  she  Vv'as  pre- 
paring her  forces  for  the  great  battle.  Such  was  the 
sccn(5  lighted  by  the  modest  little  lamp  which  Risler 
had  seen  from  below,  like  a  star  fallen  from  the  radiant 
chandeliers  of  the  ballroom. 

Reassured  by  Pere  Achille's  reply,  the  honest  fellow 
thought  of  going  up  to  his  bedroom,  avoiding  the  fes- 
tivities and  the  guests,  for  whom  he  cared  little. 

On  such  occasions  he  used  a  small  servants'  stair- 
case communicating  with  the  counting-room.  So  he 
walked  through  the  many-windowed  workshops,  which 
the  moon,  reflected  by  the  snow,  made  as  light  as  at 
noonday.  He  breathed  the  atmosphere  of  the  day  of 
toil,  a  hot,  stifling  atmosphere,  heavy  with  the  odor  of 
boiled  talc  and  varnish.  The  papers  spread  out  on  the 
dryers  formed  long,  rustlmg  paths.  On  all  sides  tools 
were  lying  about,  and  blouses  hanging  here  and  there 
ready  for  the  morrow.  Risler  never  walked  through  the 
shops  without  a  feelmg  of  pleasure. 

Suddenly  he  spied  a  light  in  Planus' s  office,  at  the 
end  of  that  long  line  of  deserted  rooms.  The  old 
i8  [?73] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

cashier  was  still  at  work,  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning! 
That  was  really  most  extraordinary. 

Risler's  first  impulse  was  to  retrace  his  steps.  In 
fact,  since  his  unaccountable  falling-out  with  Sigis- 
mond,  since  the  cashier  had  adopted  that  attitude  of 
cold  silence  toward  him,  he  had  avoided  meeting  him. 
His  wounded  friendship  had  always  led  him  to  shun 
an  explanation;  he  had  a  sort  of  pride  in  not  asking 
Planus  why  he  bore  him  ill-will.  But,  on  that  evening, 
Risler  felt  so  strongly  the  need  of  cordial  sympathy,  of 
pouring  out  his  heart  to  some  one,  and  then  it  was  such 
an  excellent  opportunity  for  a  tUe-h-tUe  with  his  former 
friend,  that  he  did  not  try  to  avoid  him  but  boldly  en- 
tered the  counting-room. 

The  cashier  was  sitting  there,  motionless,  among 
heaps  of  papers  and  great  books,  which  he  had  been 
turning  over,  some  of  which  had  fallen  to  the  floor.  At 
the  sound  of  his  employer's  footsteps  he  did  not  even  lift 
his  eyes.  He  had  recognized  Risler's  step.  The  latter, 
somewhat  abashed,  hesitated  a  moment;  then,  impelled 
by  one  of  those  secret  springs  which  we  have  within  us 
and  which  guide  us,  despite  ourselves,  in  the  path  of  our 
destiny,  he  walked  straight  to  the  cashier's  grating. 

"Sigismond,"  he  said  in  a  grave  voice. 

The  old  man  raised  his  head  and  displayed  a  shrunken 
face  down  which  two  great  tears  were  rolling,  the  first 
perhaps  that  that  animate  column  of  figures  had  ever 
shed  in  his  life. 

"You  are  weeping,  old  man?    What  troubles  you?" 

And  honest  Risler,  deeply  touched,  held  out  his  hand 
to  his  friend,  who  hastily  withdrew  his.    That  move- 

[274] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

ment  of  repulsion  was  so  instinctive,  so  brutal,  that  all 
Risler's  emotion  changed  to  indignation. 

He  drew  himself  up  with  stem  dignity. 

*'I  offer  you  my  hand,  Sigismond  Planus!"  he  said. 

"And  I  refuse  to  take  it,"  said  Planus,  rising. 

There  was  a  terrible  pause,  during  which  they 
heard  the  muffled  music  of  the  orchestra  upstairs  and 
the  noise  of  the  ball,  the  dull,  wearing  noise  of  floors 
shaken  by  the  rhythmic  movement  of  the  dance. 

"Why  do  you  refuse  to  take  my  hand?"  demanded 
Risler  simply,  while  the  grating  upon  which  he  leaned 
trembled  with  a  metallic  quiver. 

Sigismond  was  facing  him,  with  both  hands  on  his 
desk,  as  if  to  emphasize  and  drive  home  what  he  was 
about  to  say  in  reply. 

"Why?  Because  you  have  ruined  the  house;  be- 
cause in  a  few  hours  a  messenger  from  the  Bank  will 
come  and  stand  where  you  are,  to  collect  a  hundred 
thousand  francs;  and  because,  thanks  to  you,  I  haven't 
a  sou  in  the  cash-box — that's  the  reason  why!" 

Risler  was  stupefied. 

"I  have  ruined  the  house — I?" 

"Worse  than  that.  Monsieur.  You  have  allowed  it 
to  be  ruined  by  your  wife,  and  you  have  arranged  with 
her  to  benefit  by  our  ruin  and  your  dishonor.  Oh!  I 
can  see  your  game  well  enough.  The  money  your  wife 
has  wormed  out  of  the  wretched  Fromont,  the  house 
at  Asni^res,  the  diamonds  and  all  the  rest  is  invested  in 
her  name,  of  course,  out  of  reach  of  disaster;  and  of 
course  you  can  retire  from  business  now." 

"Oh — oh!"  exclaimed  Risler  in  a  faint  voice,  a  re- 
[275] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

strained  voice  rather,  that  was  insufficient  for  the  mul- 
titude of  thoughts  it  strove  to  express ;  and  as  he  stam- 
mered helplessly  he  drew  the  grating  toward  him  with 
such  force  that  he  broke  off  a  piece  of  it.  Then  he 
staggered,  fell  to  the  floor,  and  lay  there  motionless, 
speechless,  retaining  only,  in  what  little  life  was  still 
left  in  him,  the  firm  determination  not  to  die  until  he 
had  justified  himself.  That  determination  must  have 
been  very  powerful;  for  while  his  temples  throbbed 
madly,  hammered  by  the  blood  that  turned  his  face 
purple,  while  his  ears  were  ringing  and  his  glazed  eyes 
seemed  already  turned  toward  the  terrible  unknown, 
the  unhappy  man  muttered  to  himself  in  a  thick  voice, 
like  the  voice  of  a  shipwrecked  man  speaking  with  his 
mouth  full  of  water  in  a  howling  gale:  "I  must  live — 
I  must  live!" 

When  he  recovered  consciousness,  he  was  sitting  on 
the  cushioned  bench  on  which  the  workmen  sat  huddled 
together  on  pay-day,  his  cloak  on  the  floor,  his  cravat 
untied,  his  shirt  open  at  the  neck,  cut  by  Sigismond's 
knife.  Luckily  for  him,  he  had  cut  his  hands  when  he 
tore  the  grating  apart ;  the  blood  had  flowed  freely,  and 
that  accident  was  enough  to  avert  an  attack  of  apoplexy. 
On  opening  his  eyes,  he  saw  on  either  side  old  Sigismond 
and  Madame  Georges,  whom  the  cashier  had  sum- 
moned in  his  distress.  As  soon  as  Risler  could  speak, 
he  said  to  her  in  a  choking  voice : 

"Is  this  true,  Madame  Chorche — is  this  true  that 
he  just  told  me?" 

She  had  not  the  courage  to  deceive  him,  so  she 
turned  her  eyes  away. 

[276] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"So,"  continued  the  poor  fellow,  "so  the  house  is 
ruined,  and  I " 

"No,  Risler,  my  friend.    No,  not  you." 

"My  wife,  was  it  not?  Oh!  it  is  horrible!  This  is 
how  I  have  paid  my  debt  of  gratitude  to  you.  But  you, 
Madame  Chorche,  you  could  not  have  believed  that  I 
was  a  party  to  this  infamy?" 

"No,  my  friend,  no;  be  calm.  I  know  that  you  are 
the  most  honorable  man  on  earth." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  with  trembling  lips  and 
clasped  hands,  for  there  was  something  child-like  in  all 
the  manifestations  of  that  artless  nature. 

"Oh!  Madame  Chorche,  Madame  Chorche,"  he 
murmured.  "When  I  think  that  I  am  the  one  who 
has  ruined  you." 

In  the  terrible  blow  which  overwhelmed  him,  and 
by  which  his  heart,  overflowing  with  love  for  Sidonic, 
was  most  deeply  wounded,  he  refused  to  see  anything 
but  the  financial  disaster  to  the  house  of  Fromont, 
caused  by  his  blind  devotion  to  his  wife.  Suddenly  he 
stood  erect. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let  us  not  give  way  to  emotion. 
We  must  see  about  settling  our  accounts." 

Madame  Fromont  was  frightened. 

"Risler,  Risler — where  are  you  going?" 

She  thought  that  he  was  going  up  to  Georges'  room. 

Risler  understood  her  and  smiled  in  superb  disdain. 

"Never  fear,  Madame.  Monsieur  Georges  can 
sleep  in  peace.  I  have  something  more  urgent  to  do 
than  avenge  my  honor  as  a  husband.  Wait  for  me 
here.    I  will  come  back." 

[277] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

He  darted  toward  the  narrow  staircase;  and  Claire, 
relying  upon  his  word,  remained  with  Planus  during 
one  of  those  supreme  moments  of  uncertainty  which 
seem  interminable  because  of  all  the  conjectures  with 
which  they  are  thronged. 

A  few  moments  later  the  sound  of  hurried  steps,  the 
rustling  of  silk  filled  the  dark  and  narrow  staircase. 
Sidonie  appeared  first,  in  ball  costume,  gorgeously 
arrayed  and  so  pale  that  the  jewels  that  glistened 
everywhere  on  her  dead-white  flesh  seemed  more  alive 
than  she,  as  if  they  were  scattered  over  the  cold  marble 
of  a  statue.  The  breathlessness  due  to  dancing,  the 
trembling  of  intense  excitement  and  her  rapid  descent, 
caused  her  to  shake  from  head  to  foot,  and  her  floating 
ribbons,  her  ruffles,  her  flowers,  her  rich  and  fashion- 
able attire  drooped  tragically  about  her.  Risler  fol- 
lowed her,  laden  with  jewel-cases,  caskets,  and  papers. 
Upon  reaching  his  apartments  he  had  pounced  upon 
his  wife's  desk,  seized  everything  valuable  that  it  con- 
tained, jewels,  certificates,  title-deeds  of  the  house  at 
Asnieres;  then,  standing  in  the  doorway,  he  had  shouted 
into  the  ballroom: 

"Madame  Risler!" 

She  had  run  quickly  to  him,  and  that  brief  scene  had 
in  no  wise  disturbed  the  guests,  then  at  the  height  of 
the  evening's  enjoyment.  When  she  saw  her  husband 
standing  in  front  of  the  desk,  the  drawers  broken  open 
and  overturned  on  the  carpet  with  the  multitude  of 
trifles  they  contained,  she  realized  that  something  ter- 
rible was  taking  place. 

"Come  at  once,"  said  Risler;  "I  know  aU." 
[278] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

She  tried  to  assume  an  innocent,  dignified  attitude; 
but  he  seized  her  by  the  arm  with  such  force  that 
Frantz's  words  came  to  her  mind:  "It  will  kill  him 
perhaps,  but  he  will  kill  you  first."  As  she  was  afraid 
of  death,  she  allowed  herself  to  be  led  away  without 
resistance,  and  had  not  even  the  strength  to  lie. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  asked,  in  a  low 
voice. 

Risler  did  not  answer.  She  had  only  time  to  throw 
over  her  shoulders,  with  the  care  for  herself  that  never 
failed  her,  a  light  tulle  veil,  and  he  dragged  her,  pushed 
her,  rather,  down  the  stairs  leading  to  the  counting- 
room,  which  he  descended  at  the  same  time,  his  steps 
close  upon  hers,  fearing  that  his  prey  would  escape. 

"There!"  he  said,  as  he  entered  the  room.  "We 
have  stolen,  we  make  restitution.  Look,  Planus,  you 
can  raise  money  with  all  this  stuff."  And  he  placed  on 
the  cashier's  desk  all  the  fashionable  plunder  with 
which  his  arms  were  filled — feminine  trinkets,  trivial 
aids  to  coquetry,  stamped  papers. 

Then  he  turned  to  his  wife : 

"Take  off  your  jewels!    Come,  be  quick." 

She  complied  slowly,  opened  reluctantly  the  clasps 
of  bracelets  and  buckles,  and  above  all  the  superb  fas- 
tening of  her  diamond  necklace  on  which  the  initial  of 
her  name — a  gleaming  S — resembled  a  sleeping  ser- 
pent, imprisoned  in  a  circle  of  gold.  Risler,  thinking 
that  she  was  too  slow,  ruthlessly  broke  the  fragile 
fastenings.  Luxury  shrieked  beneath  his  fingers,  as  if 
it  were  being  whipped. 

"Now  it  is  my  turn,"  he  said;  "I  too  must  give  up 
[279] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

everything.    Here  is  my  portfolio.    What  else  have  I? 
What  else  have  I?" 

He  searched  his  pockets  feverishly. 

"Ah!  my  watch.  With  the  chain  it  will  bring  four 
thousand  francs.  My  rings,  my  wedding-ring.  Every- 
thing goes  into  the  cash-box,  everything.  We  have  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  to  pay  this  morning.  As  soon 
as  it  is  daylight  we  must  go  to  work,  sell  out  and  pay 
our  debts.  I  know  some  one  who  wants  the  house  at 
Asnieres.     That  can  be  settled  at  once." 

He  alone  spoke  and  acted.  Sigismond  and  Madame 
Georges  watched  him  without  speaking.  As  for  Si- 
donie,  she  seemed  unconscious,  lifeless.  The  cold  air 
blowing  from  the  garden  through  the  little  door,  which 
was  opened  at  the  time  of  Risler's  swoon,  made  her 
shiver,  and  she  mechanically  drew  the  folds  of  her 
scarf  around  her  shoulders,  her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy, 
her  thoughts  wandering.  Did  she  not  hear  the  violins 
of  her  ball,  which  reached  their  ears  in  the  intervals  of 
silence,  like  bursts  of  savage  irony,  with  the  heavy  thud 
of  the  dancers  shaking  the  floors?  An  iron  hand,  fall- 
ing upon  her,  aroused  her  abruptly  from  her  torpor. 
Risler  had  taken  her  by  the  arm,  and,  leading  her  before 
his  partner's  wife,  he  said: 

"Down  on  your  knees!" 

Madame  Fromont  drew  back,  remonstrating: 

"No,  no,  Risler,  not  that." 

"It  must  be,"  said  the  implacable  Risler.  "Resti- 
tution, reparation !  Down  on  your  knees  then,  wretched 
woman!"  And  with  irresistible  force  he  threw  Sidonie 
at  Claire's  feet;  then,  still  holding  her  arm: 

[280] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"You  will  repeat  after  me,  word  for  word,  what  1 
say:  Madame " 

Sidonie,  half  dead  with  fear,  repeated  faintly: 
"Madame " 

"A  whole  lifetime  of  humility  and  submission " 

^W  whole  lifetime  of  humil No,  I  can  not!"  she 

exclaimed,  springing  to  her  feet  with  the  agility  of  a 
deer;  and,  wresting  herself  from  Risler's  grasp,  through 
that  open  door  which  had  tempted  her  from  the  begin- 
ning of  this  horrible  scene,  luring  her  out  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  to  the  liberty  obtainable  by  flight,  she 
rushed  from  the  house,  braving  the  falling  snow  and 
the  wind  that  stung  her  bare  shoulders. 

"Stop  her,  stop  her! — Risler,  Planus,  I  implore  you! 
In  pity's  name  do  not  let  her  go  in  this  way,"  cried 
Claire. 

Planus  stepped  toward  the  door. 

Risler  detained  him. 

"I  forbid  you  to  stir!  I  ask  your  pardon,  Madame, 
but  we  have  more  important  matters  than  this  to  con- 
sider. Madame  Risler  concerns  us  no  longer.  We 
have  to  save  the  honor  of  the  house  of  Fromont,  which 
alone  is  at  stake,  which  alone  fills  my  thoughts  at  this 
moment." 

Sigismond  put  out  his  hand. 

"You  are  a  noble  man,  Risler.  Forgive  me  for  hav- 
ing suspected  you." 

Risler  pretended  not  to  hear  him. 

"A  hundred  thousand  francs  to  pay,  you  say?  How 
much  is  there  left  in  the  strong-box?" 

He  sat  gravely  down  behind  the  grating,  looking 
[281] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

over  the  books  of  account,  the  certificates  of  stock  in  the 
funds,  opening  the  jewel-cases,  estimating  with  Planus, 
whose  father  had  been  a  jeweller,  the  value  of  all  those 
diamonds,  which  he  had  once  so  admired  on  his  wife, 
having  no  suspicion  of  their  real  value. 

Meanwhile  Claire,  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
looked  out  through  the  window  at  the  little  garden, 
white  with  snow,  where  Sidonie's  footsteps  were 
already  effaced  by  the  fast-falling  flakes,  as  if  to  bear 
witness  that  that  precipitate  departure  was  without 
hope  of  return. 

Up-stairs  they  were  still  dancing.  The  mistress  of 
the  house  was  supposed  to  be  busy  with  the  prepara- 
tions for  supper,  while  she  was  flying,  bare-headed, 
forcing  back  sobs  and  shrieks  of  rage. 

Where  was  she  going?  She  had  started  off  like  a 
mad  woman,  running  across  the  garden  and  the  court- 
yard of  the  factory,  and  under  the  dark  arches,  where 
the  cruel,  freezing  wind  blew  in  eddying  circles.  Pere 
Achille  did  not  recognize  her;  he  had  seen  so  many 
shadows  wrapped  in  white  pass  his  lodge  that  night. 

The  young  woman's  first  thought  was  to  join  the 
tenor  Cazaboni,  whom  at  the  last  she  had  not  dared  to 
invite  to  her  ball;  but  he  lived  at  Montmartre,  and  that 
was  very  far  away  for  her  to  go,  in  that  garb;  and  then, 
would  he  be  at  home  ?  Her  parents  would  take  her  in, 
doubtless;  but  she  could  already  hear  Madame  Chebe's 
lamentations  and  the  little  man's  sermon  under  three 
heads.  Thereupon  she  thought  of  Delobelle,  her  old 
Delobelle.  In  the  downfall  of  all  her  splendors  she 
remembered  the  man  who  had  first  initiated  her  into 

[282] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

fashionable  life,  who  had  given  her  lessons  in  dancing 
and  deportment  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  laughed  at 
her  pretty  ways,  and  taught  her  to  look  upon  herself  as 
beautiful  before  any  one  had  ever  told  her  that  she  was 
so.  Something  told  her  that  that  fallen  star  would  take 
her  part  against  all  others.  She  entered  one  of  the 
carriages  standing  at  the  gate  and  ordered  the  driver 
to  take  her  to  the  actor's  lodgings  on  the  Boulevard 
Beaumarchais. 

For  some  time  past  Mamma  Delobelle  had  been 
making  straw  hats  for  export — a  dismal  trade  if  ever 
there  was  one,  which  brought  in  barely  two  francs  fifty 
for  twelve  hours'  work. 

And  Delobelle  continued  to  grow  fat  in  the  same 
degree  that  his  ''sainted  wife"  grew  thin.  At  the  very 
moment  when  some  one  knocked  hurriedly  at  his  door 
he  had  just  discovered  a  fragrant  soup  au  jromage, 
which  had  been  kept  hot  in  the  ashes  on  the  hearth. 
The  actor,  who  had  been  witnessing  at  Beaumarchais 
some  dark-browed  melodrama  drenched  with  gore 
even  to  the  illustrated  headlines  of  its  poster, 
was  startled  by  that  knock  at  such  an  advanced 
hour. 

"Who  is  there?"  he  asked  in  some  alarm. 

"It  is  I,  Sidonie.    Open  the  door  quickly." 

She  entered  the  room,  shivering  all  over,  and,  throw- 
ing aside  her  wrap,  went  close  to  the  stove  where  the 
fire  was  almost  extinct.  She  began  to  talk  at  once,  to 
pour  out  the  wrath  that  had  been  stifling  her  for  an  hour, 
and  while  she  was  describing  the  scene  in  the  factory, 
lowering  her  voice  because  of  Madame  Delobelle,  who 

[283] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

was  asleep  close  by,  the  magnificence  of  her  costume 
in  that  poor,  bare,  fifth  floor,  the  dazzling  whiteness  of 
her  disordered  finery  amid  the  heaps  of  coarse  hats  and 
the  wisps  of  straw  strewn  about  the  room,  all  combined 
to  produce  the  effect  of  a  veritable  drama,  of  one  of 
those  terrible  upheavals  of  life  when  rank,  feelings, 
fortunes  are  suddenly  jumbled  together. 

"Oh!  I  never  shall  return  home.  It  is  all  over. 
Free — I  am  free!" 

"But  who  could  have  betrayed  you  to  your  hus- 
band?" asked  the  actor. 

"It  was  Frantz!  I  am  sure  it  was  Frantz.  He 
wouldn't  have  believed  it  from  anybody  else.  Only 
last  evening  a  letter  came  from  Egypt.  Oh!  how  he 
treated  me  before  that  woman!  To  force  me  to  kneel! 
But  I'll  be  revenged.  Luckily  I  took  something  to 
revenge  myself  with  before  I  came  away. 

And  the  smile  of  former  days  played  about  the  comers 
of  her  pale  lips. 

The  old  strolling  player  listened  to  it  all  with  deep 
interest.  Notwithstanding  his  compassion  for  that 
poor  devil  of  a  Risler,  and  for  Sidonie  herself,  for  that 
matter,  who  seemed  to  him,  in  theatrical  parlance,  "a 
beautiful  culprit,"  he  could  not  help  viewing  the  affair 
from  a  purely  scenic  standpoint,  and  finally  cried  out, 
carried  away  by  his  hobby: 

"What  a  first-class  situation  for  a  fifth  act!" 

She  did  not  hear  him.  Absorbed  by  some  evil 
thought,  which  made  her  smile  in  anticipation,  she 
stretched  out  to  the  fire  her  dainty  shoes,  saturated  with 
snow,  and  her  openwork  stockings. 

[284] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

''Well,  what  do  you  propose  to  do  now?"  Delobelle 
asked  after  a  pause. 

"Stay  here  till  dayhght  and  get  a  little  rest.  Then 
I  will  see." 

"I  have  no  bed  to  offer  you,  my  poor  girl.  Mamma 
Delobelle  has  gone  to  bed." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  me,  my  dear  Delobelle. 
I'll  sleep  in  that  armchair.  I  won't  be  in  your  way,  I 
tell  you!" 

The  actor  heaved  a  sigh. 

"Ah!  yes,  that  armchair.  It  was  our  poor  Zizi's. 
She  sat  up  many  a  night  in  it,  when  work  was  pressing. 
Ah,  me!  those  who  leave  this  world  are  much  the 
happiest." 

He  had  always  at  hand  such  selfish,  comforting 
maxims.  He  had  no  sooner  uttered  that  one  than  he 
discovered  with  dismay  that  his  soup  would  soon  be 
stone-cold.    Sidonie  noticed  his  movement. 

"Why,  you  were  just  eating  your  supper,  weren't 
you?    Pray  go  on." 

^'Dame!  yes,  what  would  you  have  ?  It's  part  of  the 
trade,  of  the  hard  existence  we  fellows  have.  For  you 
see,  my  girl,  I  stand  firm.  I  haven't  given  up.  I  never 
will  give  up." 

What  still  remained  of  Desiree's  soul  in  that  wretched 
household  in  which  she  had  lived  twenty  years  must 
have  shuddered  at  that  terrible  declaration.  He  never 
would  give  up! 

"No  matter  what  people  may  say,"  continued  Delo- 
belle, "it's  the  noblest  profession  in  the  world.  You 
are  free;  you  depend  upon  nobody.     Devoted  to  the 

[285] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

service  of  glory  and  the  public!  Ah!  I  know  what  I 
would  do  in  your  place.  As  if  you  were  bom  to  live 
with  all  those  bourgeois — the  devil!  What  you  need  is 
the  artistic  life,  the  fever  of  success,  the  unexpected, 
intense  emotion." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  his  seat,  tucked  his  napkin  in 
his  neck,  and  helped  himself  to  a  great  plateful  of  soup. 

"To  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  your  triumphs  as  a 
pretty  woman  would  in  no  wise  interfere  with  your 
triumph  as  an  actress.  By  the  way,  do  you  know,  you 
must  take  a  few  lessons  in  elocution.  With  your  voice, 
your  intelligence,  your  charms,  you  would  have  a  mag- 
nificent prospect." 

Then  he  added  abruptly,  as  if  to  initiate  her  into  the 
joys  of  the  dramatic  art : 

"But  it  occurs  to  me  that  perhaps  you  have  not 
supped!  Excitement  makes  one  hungry;  sit  there, 
and  take  this  soup.  I  am  sure  that  you  haven't  eaten 
soup  au  jromage  for  a  long  while." 

He  turned  the  closet  topsy-turvy  to  find  her  a  spoon 
and  a  napkin;  and  she  took  her  seat  opposite  him, 
assisting  him  and  laughing  a  little  at  the  difficulties 
attending  her  entertainment.  She  was  less  pale  already, 
and  there  was  a  pretty  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  composed 
of  the  tears  of  a  moment  before  and  the  present  gayety. 

The  strolling  actress!  All  her  happiness  in  life  was 
lost  forever:  honor,  family,  wealth.  She  was  driven 
from  her  house,  stripped,  dishonored.  She  had  under- 
gone all  possible  humiliations  and  disasters.  That  did 
not  prevent  her  supping  with  a  wonderful  appetite  and 
joyously  holding  her  own  under  Delobelle's  jocose 

C286I 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

remarks  concerning  her  vocation  and  her  future 
triumphs.  She  felt  light-hearted  and  happy,  fairly 
embarked  for  the  land  of  Bohemia,  her  true  country. 
What  more  would  happen  to  her?  Of  how  many  ups 
and  downs  was  her  new,  unforeseen,  and  whimsical 
existence  to  consist?  She  thought  about  that  as  she 
fell  asleep  in  Desiree's  great  easy-chair;  but  she 
thought  of  her  revenge,  too — her  cherished  revenge 
which  she  held  in  her  hand,  all  ready  for  use,  and  so 
unerring,  so  fierce! 


[2&^] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  NEW  EMPLOY]^  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  FROMONT 

T  was  broad  daylight  when  Fromont 
Jeune  awoke.  All  night  long,  between 
the  drama  that  was  being  enacted 
below  him  and  the  festivity  in  joyous 
progress  above,  he  slept  with  clenched 
fists,  the  deep  sleep  of  complete  pros- 
tration like  that  of  a  condemned  man 
on  the  eve  of  his  execution  or  of  a 
defeated  General  on  the  night  following  his  disaster;  a 
sleep  from  which  one  would  wish  never  to  awake,  and 
in  which,  in  the  absence  of  all  sensation,  one  has  a  fore- 
taste of  death. 

The  bright  light  streaming  through  his  curtains, 
made  more  dazzling  by  the  deep  snow  with  which  the 
garden  and  the  surrounding  roofs  were  covered,  re- 
called him  to  the  consciousness  of  things  as  they  were. 
He  felt  a  shock  throughout  his  whole  being,  and,  even 
before  his  mind  began  to  work,  that  vague  impression 
of  miclancholy  which  misfortunes,  momentarily  for- 
gotten, leave  in  their  place.  All  the  familiar  noises  of 
the  factory,  the  dull  throbbing  of  the  machinery,  were 
in  full  activity.  So  the  world  still  existed !  and  by  slow 
degrees  the  idea  of  his  own  responsibihty  awoke  in 
him. 

[288] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"To-day  is  the  day,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  an 
involuntary  movement  toward  the  dark  side  of  the 
room,  as  if  he  longed  to  bury  himself  anew  in  his 
long  sleep. 

The  factory  bell  rang,  then  other  bells  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, then  the  Angelus. 

"Noon!    Already!    How  I  have  slept!" 

He  felt  some  little  remorse  and  a  great  sense  of  relief 
at  the  thought  that  the  drama  of  settling-day  had 
passed  off  without  him.  What  had  they  done  down- 
stairs ?   Why  did  they  not  call  him  ? 

He  rose,  drew  the  curtains  aside,  and  saw  Risler 
and  Sigismond  talking  together  in  the  garden.  And 
it  was  so  long  since  they  had  spoken  to  each  other! 
What  in  heaven's  name  had  happened?  When  he 
was  ready  to  go  down  he  found  Claire  at  the  door 
of  his  room. 

"You  must  not  go  out,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"Stay  here.    I  will  explain  it  to  you." 

"But  what's  the  matter?  Did  any  one  come  from 
the  Bank?" 

"Yes,  they  came — the  notes  are  paid." 

"Paid?" 

"Risler  obtained  the  money.  He  has  been  rushing 
about  with  Planus  since  early  morning.  It  seems  that 
his  wife  had  superb  jewels.  The  diamond  necklace 
alone  brought  twenty  thousand  francs.  He  has  also 
sold  their  house  at  Asnieres  with  all  it  contained ;  but 
as  time  was  required  to  record  the  deed.  Planus  and 
his  sister  advanced  the  money." 
19  [289] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

She  turned  away  from  him  as  she  spoke.  He,  on  his 
side,  hung  his  head  to  avoid  her  glance. 

"Risler  is  an  honorable  man,"  she  continued,  "and 
when  he  learned  from  whom  his  wife  received  all  her 
magnificent  things " 

"WTiat!"  exclaimed  Georges  in  dismay.  "He 
knows?" 

"All,"  Claire  replied,  lowering  her  voice. 

The  wretched  man  turned  pale,  stammered  feebly: 

"Why,  then— you?" 

"Oh!  I  knev/  it  all  before  Risler.  Remember,  that 
when  I  came  home  last  night,  I  told  you  I  had  heard  very 
cruel  things  down  at  Savigny,  and  that  I  would  have 
given  ten  years  of  my  life  not  to  have  taken  that  journey." 

"Claire!" 

Moved  by  a  mighty  outburst  of  affection,  he  stepped 
toward  his  wife;  but  her  face  was  so  cold,  so  sad,  so 
resolute,  her  despair  was  so  plainly  written  in  the  stem 
indifference  of  her  whole  bearing,  that  he  dared  not 
take  her  in  his  arms  as  he  longed  to  do,  but  simply 
murmured  under  his  breath : 

' '  Forgive ! — forgive ! " 

"You  must  think  me  strangely  calm,"  said  the  brave 
woman;  "but  I  shed  all  my  tears  yesterday.  You 
may  have  thought  that  I  was  weeping  over  our  ruin; 
you  were  mistaken.  While  one  is  young  and  strong  as 
we  are,  such  cowardly  conduct  is  not  permissible.  We 
are  armed  against  want  and  can  fight  it  face  to  face. 
No,  I  was  weeping  for  our  departed  happiness,  for  you, 
for  the  madness  that  led  you  to  throw  away  your  only, 
your  true  friend." 

[290] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

She  was  lovely,  lovelier  than  Sidonie  had  ever  been, 
as  she  spoke  thus,  enveloped  by  a  pure  light  which 
seemed  to  fall  upon  her  from  a  great  height,  like  the 
radiance  of  a  fathomless,  cloudless  sky;  whereas  the 
other's  irregular  features  had  always  seemed  to  owe 
their  brilliancy,  their  saucy,  insolent  charm  to  the  false 
glamour  of  the  footlights  in  some  cheap  theatre.  The 
touch  of  statuesque  immobility  formerly  noticeable  in 
Claire's  face  was  vivified  by  anxiety,  by  doubt,  by  all 
the  torture  of  passion ;  and  like  those  gold  ingots  which 
have  their  full  value  only  when  the  Mint  has  placed  its 
stamp  upon  them,  those  beautiful  features  stamped 
with  the  effigy  of  sorrow  had  acquired  since  the  pre- 
ceding day  an  inefifaceable  expression  which  perfected 
their  beauty. 

Georges  gazed  at  her  in  admiration.  She  seemed 
to  him  more  alive,  more  womanly,  and  worthy  of 
adoration  because  of  their  separation  and  all  the  obsta- 
cles that  he  now  knew  to  stand  between  them.  Re- 
morse, despair,  shame  entered  his  heart  simultaneously 
with  this  new  love,  and  he  would  have  fallen  on  his 
knees  before  her. 

"No,  no,  do  not  kneel,"  said  Claire;  "if  you  knew 
of  what  you  remind  me,  if  you  knew  what  a  lying 
face,  distorted  with  hatred,  I  saw  at  my  feet  last 
night!" 

"Ah!  but  I  am  not  lying,"  replied  Georges  with  a 
shudder.  "Claire,  I  implore  you,  in  the  name  of  our 
child " 

At  that  moment  some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 

"Rise,  I  beg  of  you!  You  see  that  life  has  claims 
[  291 1 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

upon  us,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  and  with  a  bittef 
smile;  then  she  asked  what  was  wanted. 

Monsieur  Risler  had  sent  for  Monsieur  to  come 
down  to  the  office. 

"Very  well,"  she  said;  "say  that  he  will  come." 

Georges  approached  the  door,  but  she  stopped  him. 

"No,  let  me  go.    He  must  not  see  you  yet." 

"But " 

"I  wish  you  to  stay  here.  You  have  no  idea  of  the 
indignation  and  wrath  of  that  poor  man,  whom  you 
have  deceived.  If  you  had  seen  him  last  night,  crush- 
ing his  wife's  wrists!" 

As  she  said  it  she  looked  him  in  the  face  with  a  curi- 
osity most  cruel  to  herself;  but  Georges  did  not  wince, 
and  replied  simply: 

"My  life  belongs  to  him." 

"It  belongs  to  me,  too;  and  I  do  not  wish  you  to  go 
down.  There  has  been  scandal  enough  in  my  father's 
house.  Remember  that  the  whole  factory  is  aware  of 
what  is  going  on.  Every  one  is  watching  us,  spying 
upon  us.  It  required  all  the  authority  of  the  foremen 
to  keep  the  men  busy  to-day,  to  compel  them  to  keep 
their  inquisitive  looks  on  their  work." 

"But  I  shall  seem  to  be  hiding." 

"And  suppose  it  were  so!  That  is  just  like  a  man. 
They  do  not  recoil  from  the  worst  crimes:  betraying  a 
wife,  betraying  a  friend;  but  the  thought  that  they  may 
be  accused  of  being  afraid  touches  them  more  keenly 
than  anything.  Moreover,  listen  to  what  I  say.  Si- 
donie  has  gone;  she  has  gone  forever;  and  if  you  leave 
this  house  I  shall  think  that  you  have  gone  to  join  her." 

[  292  ] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"Very  well,  I  will  stay,"  said  Georges.  "I  will  do 
whatever  you  wish." 

Claire  descended  into  Planus'  office. 

To  see  Risler  striding  to  and  fro,  with  his  hands  be- 
hind his  back,  as  calm  as  usual,  no  one  would  ever 
have  suspected  all  that  had  taken  place  in  his  life  since 
the  night  before.  As  for  Sigismond,  he  was  fairly 
beaming,  for  he  saw  nothing  in  it  all  beyond  the  fact 
that  the  notes  had  been  paid  at  maturity  and  that  the 
honor  of  the  firm  was  safe. 

When  Madame  Fromont  appeared,  Risler  smiled 
sadly  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  thought  that  you  would  prefer  to  come  down  in 
his  place;  but  you  are  not  the  one  with  whom  I  have 
to  deal.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  I  should  see 
Georges  and  talk  with  him.  We  have  paid  the  notes 
that  fell  due  this  morning;  the  crisis  has  passed;  but 
we  must  come  to  an  understanding  about  many  mat- 
ters." 

"Risler,  my  friend,  I  beg  you  to  wait  a  little  longer." 

"Why,  Madame  Chorche,  there's  not  a  minute  to 
lose.  Oh!  I  suspect  that  you  fear  I  may  give  way  to  an 
outbreak  of  anger.  Have  no  fear — let  him  have  no 
fear.  You  know  what  I  told  you,  that  the  honor  of  the 
house  of  Fromont  is  to  be  assured  before  my  own.  I 
have  endangered  it  by  my  fault.  First  of  all,  I  must 
repair  the  evil  I  have  done  or  allowed  to  be  done." 

"Your  conduct  toward  us  is  worthy  of  all  admiration, 
my  good  Risler;  I  know  it  well." 

"Oh!  Madame,  if  you  could  see  him!  he's  a  saint," 
said  poor  Sigismond,  who,  not  daring  to  speak  to  his 

[293] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

friend,  was  determined  at  all  events  to  express  his 


remorse 


But  aren't  you  afraid?"  continued  Claire.  "Hu- 
man endurance  has  its  limits.  It  may  be  that  in  pres- 
ence of  the  man  who  has  injured  you  so " 

Risler  took  her  hands,  gazed  into  her  eyes  with  grave 
admiration,  and  said: 

"You  dear  creature,  who  speak  of  nothing  but  the 
injury  done  to  me !  Do  you  not  know  that  I  hate  him 
as  bitterly  for  his  falseness  to  you  ?  But  nothing  of  that 
sort  has  any  existence  for  me  at  this  moment.  You  see 
in  me  simply  a  business  man  who  wishes  to  have  an 
understanding  with  his  partner  for  the  good  of  the  firm. 
So  let  him  come  down  without  the  slightest  fear,  and 
if  you  dread  any  outbreak  on  my  part,  stay  here  with 
us.  I  shall  need  only  to  look  at  my  old  master's 
daughter  to  be  reminded  of  my  promise  and  my 
duty." 

"I  trust  you,  my  friend,"  said  Claire;  and  she  went 
up  to  bring  her  husband. 

The  first  minute  of  the  interview  was  terrible. 
Georges  was  deeply  moved,  humiliated,  pale  as  death. 
He  would  have  preferred  a  hundred  times  over  to  be 
looking  into  the  barrel  of  that  man's  pistol  at  twenty 
paces,  awaiting  his  fire,  instead  of  appearing  before 
him  as  an  unpunished  culprit  and  being  compelled  to 
confine  his  feelings  within  the  commonplace  limits  of 
a  business  conversation. 

Risler  pretended  not  to  look  at  him,  and  continued 
to  pace  the  floor  as  he  talked : 

"Our  house  is  passing  through  a  terrible  crisis.  We 
[294] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

have  averted  the  disaster  for  to-day;  but  this  is  not  the 
last  of  our  obligations.  That  cursed  invention  has 
kept  my  mind  away  from  the  business  for  a  long  while. 
Luckily,  I  am  free  now,  and  able  to  attend  to  it.  But 
you  must  give  your  attention  to  it  as  well.  The  work- 
men and  clerks  have  followed  the  example  of  their  em- 
ployers to  some  extent.  Indeed,  they  have  become 
extremely  negligent  and  indifferent.  This  morning, 
for  the  first  time  in  a  year,  they  began  work  at  the 
proper  time.  I  expect  that  you  will  make  it  your  busi- 
ness to  change  all  that.  As  for  me,  I  shall  work  at  my 
drawings  again.  Our  patterns  are  old-fashioned.  We 
must  have  new  ones  for  the  new  machines.  I  have  great 
confidence  in  our  presses.  The  experiments  have  suc- 
ceeded beyond  my  hopes.  We  unquestionably  have  in 
them  a  means  of  building  up  our  business.  I  didn't 
tell  you  sooner  because  I  wished  to  surprise  you;  but 
we  have  no  more  surprises  for  each  other,  have  we, 
Georges?" 

There  was  such  a  stinging  note  of  irony  in  his  voice 
that  Claire  shuddered,  fearing  an  outbreak;  but  he 
continued,  in  his  natural  tone. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  can  promise  that  in  six  months  the 
Risler  Press  will  begin  to  show  magnificent  results. 
But  those  six  months  will  be  very  hard  to  live  through. 
We  must  limit  ourselves,  cut  down  our  expenses,  save 
in  every  way  that  we  can.  We  have  five  draughtsmen 
now;  hereafter  we  will  have  but  two.  I  will  undertake 
to  make  the  absence  of  the  others  of  no  consequence  by 
working  at  night  myself.  Furthermore,  beginning  with 
this  month,  I  abandon  my  interest  in  the  firm.    I  will 

[295] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

take  my  salary  as  foreman  as  I  took  it  before,  and  noth- 
ing more." 

Fromont  attempted  to  speak,  but  a  gesture  from  his 
wife  restrained  him,  and  Risler  continued : 

"I  am  no  longer  your  partner,  Georges.  I  am  once 
more  the  clerk  that  I  never  should  have  ceased  to  be. 
From  this  day  our  partnership  articles  are  cancelled. 
I  insist  upon  it,  you  understand;  I  insist  upon  it.  We 
will  remain  in  that  relation  to  each  other  until  the  house 

is  out  of  difficulty  and  I  can But  what  I  shall  do 

then  concerns  me  alone.  This  is  what  I  wanted  to  say 
to  you,  Georges.  You  must  give  your  attention  to  the 
factory  diligently;  you  must  show  yourself,  make  it  felt 
that  you  are  master  now,  and  I  believe  there  v/ill  turn 
out  to  be,  among  all  our  misfortunes,  some  that  can  be 
retrieved." 

During  the  silence  that  followed,  they  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels  in  the  garden,  and  two  great  furniture 
vans  stopped  at  the  door. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Risler,  "but  I  must  leave 
you  a  moment.  Those  are  the  vans  from  the  public 
auction  rooms;  they  have  come  to  take  away  my  fur- 
niture from  upstairs." 

"What!  you  are  going  to  sell  your  furniture  too?" 
asked  Madame  Fromont. 

"Certainly — to  the  last  piece.  I  am  simply  giving  it 
back  to  the  firm.    It  belongs  to  it." 

"But  that  is  impossible,"  said  Georges.  "I  can  not 
allow  that." 

Risler  turned  upon  him  indignantly. 

"What's  that?    What  is  it  that  you  can't  allow?" 
[296] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

Claire  checked  him  with  an  imploring  gesture. 

"True — true!"  he  muttered;  and  he  hurried  from 
the  room  to  escape  the  sudden  temptation  to  give  vent 
to  all  that  was  in  his  heart. 

The  second  floor  was  deserted.  The  servants,  who 
had  been  paid  and  dismissed  in  the  morning,  had  aban- 
doned the  apartments  to  the  disorder  of  the  day  follow- 
ing a  ball ;  and  they  wore  the  aspect  peculiar  to  places 
where  a  drama  has  been  enacted,  and  which  are  left  in 
suspense,  as  it  were,  between  the  events  that  have  hap- 
pened and  those  that  are  still  to  happen.  The  open 
doors,  the  rugs  lying  in  heaps  in  the  comers,  the  salvers 
laden  with  glasses,  the  preparations  for  the  supper,  the 
table  still  set  and  untouched,  the  dust  from  the  dancing 
on  all  the  furniture,  its  odor  mingled  with  the  fumes  of 
punch,  of  withered  flowers,  of  rice-powder — all  these 
details  attracted  Risler's  notice  as  he  entered. 

In  the  disordered  salon  the  piano  was  open,  the 
bacchanal  from  Orphee  aux  Enjers  on  the  music-shelf, 
and  the  gaudy  hangings  surrounding  that  scene  of 
desolation,  the  chairs  overturned,  as  if  in  fear,  reminded 
one  of  the  saloon  of  a  wrecked  packet-boat,  of  one  of 
those  ghostly  nights  of  watching  when  one  is  suddenly 
informed,  in  the  midst  of  a  jete  at  sea,  that  the  ship  has 
sprung  a  leak,  that  she  is  taking  in  water  in  every  part. 

The  men  began  to  remove  the  furniture.  Risler 
watched  them  at  work  with  an  indifferent  air,  as  if  he 
were  in  a  stranger's  house.  That  magnificence  which 
had  once  rhade  him  so  happy  and  proud  inspired  in 
him  now  an  insurmountable  disgust.     But,  when  he 

[297] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

entered  his  wife's  bedroom,  he  was  conscious  of  a  vague 
emotion. 

It  was  a  large  room,  hung  with  blue  satin  under  white 
lace.  A  veritable  cocotte's  nest.  There  were  torn  and 
rumpled  tulle  ruffles  lying  about,  bows,  and  artificial 
flowers.  The  wax  candles  around  the  mirror  had 
burned  down  to  the  end  and  cracked  the  candlesticks; 
and  the  bed,  with  its  lace  flounces  and  valances,  its 
great  curtains  raised  and  drawn  back,  untouched  in  the 
general  confusion,  seemed  like  the  bed  of  a  corpse,  a 
state  bed  on  which  no  one  would  ever  sleep  again. 

Rislcr's  first  feeling  upon  entering  the  room  was  one 
of  mad  indignation,  a  longing  to  fall  upon  the  things 
before  him,  to  tear  and  rend  and  shatter  everything. 
Nothing,  you  see,  resembles  a  woman  so  much  as  her 
bedroom.  Even  when  she  is  absent,  her  image  still 
smiles  in  the  mirrors  that  have  reflected  it.  A  little 
something  of  her,  of  her  favorite  perfume,  remains  in 
everything  she  has  touched.  Her  attitudes  are  repro- 
duced in  the  cushions  of  her  couch,  and  one  can  follow 
her  goings  and  comings  between  the  mirror  and  the 
toilette  table  in  the  pattern  of  the  carpet.  The  one 
thing  above  all  others  in  that  room  that  recalled  Sidonie 
was  an  etagere  covered  with  childish  toys,  petty,  trivial 
knickknacks,  microscopic  fans,  dolls'  tea-sets,  gilded 
shoes,  little  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  facing  one 
another,  exchanging  cold,  gleaming,  porcelain  glances. 
That  ^tag^re  was  Sidonie's  very  soul,  and  her  thoughts, 
always  commonplace,  petty,  vain,  and  empty,  resem- 
bled those  gewgaws.  Yes,  in  very  truth,  if  Risler,  while 
he  held  her  in  his  grasp  last  night,  had  in  his  frenzy 

[298] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

broken  that  fragile  little  head,  a  whole  world  of  etag^re 
ornaments  would  have  come  from  it  in  place  of  a  brain. 

The  poor  man  was  thinking  sadly  of  all  these  things 
amid  the  ringing  of  hammers  and  the  heavy  footsteps 
of  the  furniture-movers,  when  he  heard  an  interloping, 
authoritative  step  behind  him,  and  Monsieur  Chebe 
appeared,  little  Monsieur  Chebe,  flushed  and  breath- 
less, with  flames  darting  from  his  eyes.  He  assumed, 
as  always,  a  very  high  tone  with  his  son-in-law. 

"What  does  this  mean?  What  is  this  I  hear?  Ah! 
so  you're  moving,  are  you?" 

"I  am  not  moving,  Monsieur  Chebe — I  am  selling 
out." 

The  little  man  gave  a  leap  like  a  scalded  fish. 

"You  are  selling  out?    What  are  you  selling,  pray?" 

"I  am  selling  everything,"  said  Risler  in  a  hollow 
voice,  without  even  looking  at  him. 

"Come,    come,    son-in-law,    be   reasonable.      God 

knows  I  don't  say  that  Sidonie's  conduct But,  for 

my  part,  I  know  nothing  about  it.  I  never  wanted  to 
know  anything.  Only  I  must  remind  you  of  your  dig- 
nity. People  wash  their  dirty  Knen  in  private,  deuce 
take  it!  They  don't  make  spectacles  of  themselves  as 
you've  been  doing  ever  since  morning.  Just  see  every- 
body at  the  workshop  windows;  and  on  the  porch,  too! 
Why,  you're  the  talk  of  the  quarter,  my  dear  fellow." 

"So  much  the  better.  The  dishonor  was  public,  the 
reparation  must  be  public,  too." 

This  apparent  coolness,  this  indifference  to  all  his 
observations,  exasperated  Monsieur  Chebe.  He  sud- 
denly changed  his  tactics,  and  adopted,  in  addressing 

[299] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

his  son-in-law,  the  serious,  peremptory  tone  which  one 
uses  with  children  or  lunatics. 

"Well,  I  say  that  you  haven't  any  right  to  take  any- 
thing away  from  here.  I  remonstrate  formally,  with  all 
my  strength  as  a  man,  with  all  my  authority  as  a  father. 
Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  let  you  drive  my  child 
into  the  street.  No,  indeed!  Oh!  no,  indeed!  Enough 
of  such  nonsense  as  that !  Nothing  more  shall  go  out  of 
these  rooms." 

And  Monsieur  Chebe,  having  closed  the  door,  planted 
himself  in  front  of  it  with  a  heroic  gesture.  Deuce  take 
it!  his  own  interest  was  at  stake  in  the  matter.  The 
fact  was  that  when  his  child  was  once  in  the  gutter  he 
ran  great  risk  of  not  having  a  feather  bed  to  sleep  on 
himself.  He  was  superb  in  that  attitude  of  an  indig- 
nant father,  but  he  did  not  keep  it  long.  Two  hands, 
two  vises,  seized  his  wrists,  and  he  found  himself  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  leaving  the  doorway  clear  for  the 
workmen. 

"Chebe,  my  boy,  just  Hsten,"  said  Risler,  leaning 
over  him.  "I  am  at  the  end  of  my  forbearance.  Since 
this  morning  I  have  been  making  superhuman  efforts 
to  restrain  myself,  but  it  would  take  very  little  now  to 
make  my  anger  burst  all  bonds,  and  woe  to  the  man  on 
whom  it  falls !  I  am  quite  capable  of  killing  some  one. 
Come !    Be  off  at  once ! " 

There  was  such  an  intonation  in  his  son-in-law's 
voice,  and  the  way  that  son-in-law  shook  him  as  he 
spoke  was  so  eloquent,  that  Monsieur  Chebe  was  fully 
convinced.  He  even  stammered  an  apology.  Certainly 
I5.isler  hgid  good  reason  for  acting  as  he  had.   All  l^on^ 

[300] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

orable  people  would  be  on  his  side.  And  he  backed 
toward  the  door  as  he  spoke.  When  he  reached  it,  he 
inquired  timidly  if  Madame  Ch^be's  little  allowance 
would  be  continued. 

"Yes,"  was  Risler's  reply,  "but  never  go  beyond  it, 
for  my  position  here  is  not  what  it  was.  I  am  no  longer 
a  partner  in  the  house." 

Monsieur  Chebe  stared  at  him  in  amazement,  and 
assumed  the  idiotic  expression  which  led  many  people 
to  believe  that  the  accident  that  had  happened  to  him 
— exactly  like  that  of  the  Due  d' Orleans,  you  know — 
was  net  a  fable  of  his  o\vti  invention ;  but  he  dared  not 
make  the  slightest  observation.  Surely  some  one  had 
changed  his  son-in-law.  Was  this  really  Risler,  this 
tiger-cat,  who  bristled  up  at  the  slightest  word  and 
talked  of  nothing  less  than  killing  people  ? 

He  took  to  his  heels,  recovered  his  self-possession  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  walked  across  the  courtyard 
with  the  air  of  a  conqueror. 

When  all  the  rooms  were  cleared  and  empty,  Risler 
walked  through  them  for  the  last  time,  then  took  the 
key  and  went  down  to  Planus' s  office  to  hand  it  to 
Madame  Georges. 

"You  can  let  the  apartment,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  so 
much  added  to  the  income  of  the  factory." 

"But  you,  my  friend?" 

"Oh!  I  don't  need  much.  An  iron  bed  up  under  the 
eaves.  That's  all  a  clerk  needs.  For,  I  repeat,  I  am 
nothing  but  a  clerk  from  this  time  on.  A  useful  clerk, 
by  the  way,  faithful  and  courageous,  of  whom  you  will 
have  no  occasion  to  complain,  I  promise  you," 

[301] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Georges,  who  was  going  over  the  books  with  Planus, 
was  so  affected  at  hearing  the  poor  fellow  talk  in  that 
strain  that  he  left  his  seat  precipitately.  He  was  suffo- 
cated by  his  sobs.  Claire,  too,  was  deeply  moved;  she 
went  to  the  new  clerk  of  the  house  of  Fromont  and  said 
to  him : 

"Risler,  I  thank  you  in  my  father's  name." 

At  that  moment  Pere  Achille  appeared  with  the  mail. 

Risler  took  the  pile  of  letters,  opened  them  tranquilly 
one  by  one,  and  passed  them  over  to  Sigismond. 

''Here's  an  order  for  Lyon.  Why  wasn't  it  answered 
at  Saint-Etienne?" 

He  plunged  with  all  his  energy  into  these  details, 
and  he  brought  to  them  a  keen  intelligence,  due  to  the 
constant  straining  of  the  mind  toward  peace  and  for- 
getfulness. 

Suddenly,  among  those  huge  envelopes,  stamped 
with  the  names  of  business  houses,  the  paper  of  which 
and  the  manner  of  folding  suggested  the  office  and 
hasty  despatch,  he  discovered  one  smaller  one,  carefully 
sealed,  and  hidden  so  cunningly  between  the  others  that 
at  first  he  did  not  notice  it.  He  recognized  instantly 
that  long,  fine,  firm  writing, — To  Monsieur  Risler — 
Personal.  It  was  Sidonie's  writing!  When  he  saw  it 
he  felt  the  same  sensation  he  had  felt  in  the  bedroom 
upstairs. 

All  his  love,  all  the  hot  wrath  of  the  betrayed  hus- 
band poured  back  into  his  heart  with  the  frantic  force 
that  makes  assassins.  What  was  she  writing  to  him? 
What  lie  had  she  invented  now  ?  He  was  about  to  open 
the  letter;    then  he  paused.    He  realized  that,  if  he 

[302] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

should  read  that,  it  would  be  all  over  with  his  courage ; 
so  he  leaned  over  to  the  old  cashier,  and  said  in  an  un- 
dertone : 

"Sigismond,  old  friend,  will  you  do  me  a  favor?" 

"I  should  think  so!"  said  the  worthy  man  enthu- 
siastically. He  was  so  delighted  to  hear  his  friend  speak 
to  him  in  the  kindly  voice  of  the  old  days. 

"Here's  a  letter  some  one  has  written  me  which  I 
don't  wish  to  read  now.  I  am  sure  it  would  interfere 
with  my  thinking  and  living.  You  must  keep  it  for  me, 
and  this  with  it." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  little  package  carefully 
tied,  and  handed  it  to  him  through  the  grating. 

''That  is  all  I  have  left  of  the  past,  all  I  have  left  of 
that  woman.  I  have  determined  not  to  see  her,  nor 
anything  that  reminds  me  of  her,  until  my  task  here  is 
concluded,  and  concluded  satisfactorily, — I  need  all 
my  intelligence,  you  understand.  You  will  pay  the 
Chebes'  allowance.  If  she  herself  should  ask  for  any- 
thing, you  will  give  her  what  she  needs.  But  you  will 
never  mention  my  name.  And  you  will  keep  this  pack- 
age safe  for  me  until  I  ask  you  for  it." 

Sigismond  locked  the  letter  and  the  package  in  a 
secret  drawer  of  his  desk  with  other  valuable  papers. 
Risler  returned  at  once  to  his  correspondence;  but  all 
the  time  he  had  before  his  eyes  the  slender  English  let- 
ters traced  by  a  little  hand  which  he  had  so  often  and  so 
ardently  pressed  to  his  heart. 


[303] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  CAFE  CHANTANT 

;^HAT  a  rare,  what  a  conscientious  clerk 
did  that  new  employe  of  the  house  of 
Fromont  prove  himself! 

Every  day  his  lamp  was  the  first  to 
appear  at,  and  the  last  to  disappear 
from,  the  windows  of  the  factory.  A 
little  room  had  been  arranged  for  him 
under  the  eaves,  exactly  like  the  one 
he  had  formerly  occupied  with  Frantz,  a  veritable 
Trappist's  cell,  furnished  with  an  iron  cot  and  a  white 
wooden  table,  that  stood  under  his  brother's  portrait. 
He  led  the  same  busy,  regular,  quiet  life  as  in  those  old 
days. 

He  worked  constantly,  and  had  his  meals  brought 
from  the  same  little  creamery.  But,  alas!  the  disap- 
pearance forever  of  youth  and  hope  deprived  those 
memories  of  all  their  charm.  Luckily  he  still  had 
Frantz  and  Madame  "Chorche,"  the  only  two  human 
beings  of  whom  he  could  think  without  a  feeling  of  sad- 
ness. Madame  "Chorche"  was  always  at  hand,  al- 
ways trying  to  minister  to  his  comfort,  to  console  him; 
and  Frantz  wrote  to  him  often,  without  mentioning 
Sidonie,  by  the  way.  Risler  supposed  that  some  one  had 
told  Frantz  of  the  disaster  that  had  befallen  him,  and 

[394] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

he  too  avoided  all  allusion  to  the  subject  in  his  letters. 
"Oh!  when  I  can  send  for  him  to  come  home!"  That 
was  his  dream,  his  sole  ambition :  to  restore  the  factory 
and  recall  his  brother. 

Meanwhile  the  days  succeeded  one  another,  always 
the  same  to  him  in  the  restless  activity  of  business  and 
the  heartrending  loneliness  of  his  grief.  Every  morn- 
ing he  walked  through  the  v/orkshops,  where  the  pro- 
found respect  he  inspired  and  his  stem,  silent  counte- 
nance had  reestablished  the  orderly  conditions  that  had 
been  temporarily  disturbed.  In  the  beginning  there 
had  been  much  gossip,  and  various  explanations  of 
Sidonie's  departure  had  been  made.  Some  said  that 
she  had  eloped  with  a  lover,  others  that  Risler  had 
turned  her  out.  The  one  fact  that  upset  all  conjectures 
was  the  attitude  of  the  two  partners  toward  each  other, 
apparently  as  unconstrained  as  before.  Sometimes, 
however,  when  they  v/ere  talking  together  in  the  office, 
with  no  one  by,  Risler  would  suddenly  start  convul- 
sively, as  a  vision  of  the  crime  passed  before  his  eyes. 

Then  he  would  feel  a  mad  longing  to  spring  upon  the 
villain,  seize  him  by  the  throat,  strangle  him  without 
mercy;  but  the  thought  of  Madame  "Chorche"  was 
always  there  to  restrain  him.  Should  he  be  less  cou- 
rageous, less  master  of  himself  than  that  young  wife  ? 
Neither  Claire,  nor  Fromont,  nor  anybody  else  sus- 
pected what  was  in  his  mind.  They  could  barely  de- 
tect a  severity,  an  inflexibility  in  his  conduct,  which 
were  not  habitual  with  him.  Risler  awed  the  workmen 
now;  and  those  of  them  upon  whom  his  white  hair, 
blanched  in  one  night,  his  drawn,  prematurely  old  feat^ 
20  [^^5] 


FBOMOXT  AND  RISLER 

ures  did  not  impost  reapect,  quailed  before  his  strange 
^anct — a  glance  from  eyes  of  a  bluish-biack  like  the 
color  of  a  gtm-lxuTeL  Whereas  he  had  always  been 
¥eij  kind  and  a^ble  with  the  workmen,  he  had  be- 
come pitilessly  severe  in  regard  to  the  di^test  infrac- 
tion of  the  rules.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  taking  ven- 
geance upon  himself  for  some  indulgence  in  the  post, 
tiind,  cn^tie  indnlynce ,  for  frfncfa  he  blamed  Imnself . 

Sordy  he  was  a  marveDoos  em|4oy^,  was  this  new 
officer  in  the  bouse  of  Fromont 

Thanks  to  him,  the  factory  bell,  notwidistanding  the 
quamering  of  its  oki,  cracked  voice,  had  very  soon  re- 
sumed its  authority;  and  the  man  who  guided  the  whole 
establishment  denied  himself  the  slightest  recreation. 
Sober  as  an  apprentice,  he  left  tiiree-fourths  of  his 
salary  with  Planus  for  the  Ch^bes'  allowance,  but  he 
nrtcr  asked  any  questions  about  them.  Punctually  on 
die  kut  day  of  the  month  the  little  man  appeared  to 
collect  his  little  income,  sdfif  and  formal  in  his  dealings 
with  Sigisnond,  as  became  an  annuitant  on  duty. 
Madame  Ch^be  had  tried  to  obtain  an  interview  with 
her  son-in-law,  whom  she  pitied  and  loved;  but  the 
mere  appearance  of  her  palm-leaf  shawi  on  the  steps 
put  Sidonie^s  husband  to  fli^t. 

In  truth,  the  courage  with  which  he  armed  himself 
was  more  apparent  than  real.  The  memory  of  his 
wife  never  left  him.  What  had  become  of  her?  What 
was  she  doing?  He  was  almost  angry  with  Planus  for 
never  mentioning  her.  That  letter,  above  all  things, 
that  letter  which  he  had  had  the  courage  not  to  open, 
disturbed  him.     He  thou^t  of  it  continually.     Ah! 

[306] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

had  he  dared,  how  he  would  have  liked  to  ask  Sigis- 
mond  for  it ! 

One  day  the  temptation  was  too  strong.  He  was 
alone  in  the  ofBce.  The  old  cashier  had  gone  out  to 
luncheon,  leaving  the  key  in  his  drawer,  a  most  ex- 
traordinary thing.  Risler  could  not  resist.  He  opened 
the  drawer,  moved  the  papers,  and  searched  for  his 
letter.  It  was  not  there.  Sigismond  must  have  put  it 
away  even  more  carefully,  perhaps  with  a  foreboding 
of  what  actually  happened.  In  his  heart  Risler  was 
not  sorry  for  his  disappointment;  for  he  well  knew 
that,  had  he  found  the  letter,  it  would  have  been  the 
end  of  the  resigned  and  busy  life  which  he  imposed 
upon  himself  with  so  much  diflBculty. 

Through  the  week  it  was  all  very  well.  Life  was 
endurable,  absorbed  by  the  innumerable  duties  of  the 
factory,  and  so  fatiguing  that,  when  night  came,  Risler 
fell  on  his  bed  like  a  lifeless  mass.  But  Sunday  was 
long  and  sad.  The  silence  of  the  deserted  j^ards  and 
workshops  opened  a  far  wider  field  to  his  thoughts. 
He  tried  to  busy  himself,  but  he  missed  the  encourage- 
ment of  the  others'  work.  He  alone  was  busy  in  that 
great,  empty  factory  whose  very  breath  was  arrested. 
The  locked  doors,  the  closed  blinds,  the  hoarse  \^ice 
of  P^re  Achille  plajong  with  his  dog  in  the  deserted 
courtyard,  all  spoke  of  solitude.  And  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood also  produced  the  same  effect.  In  the  streets, 
which  seemed  wider  because  of  their  emptiness,  and 
where  the  passers-by  were  few  and  silent,  the  bells 
ringing  for  \Tspers  had  a  melancholy  sound,  and  some- 
times an  echo  of  the  din  of  Paris,  rumbling  wheels,  a 

[307 1 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

belated  hand-organ,  the  click  of  a  toy-peddler's  clap- 
pers, broke  the  silence,  as  if  to  make  it  even  more 
noticeable. 

Risler  would  try  to  invent  new  combinations  of 
flowers  and  leaves,  and,  while  he  handled  his  pencil, 
his  thoughts,  not  finding  sufficient  food  there,  would 
escape  him,  would  fly  back  to  his  past  happiness,  to 
his  hopeless  misfortunes,  would  suffer  martyrdom,  and 
then,  on  returning,  would  ask  the  poor  somnambulist, 
still  seated  at  his  table:  ''What  have  you  done  in  my 
absence?"    Alas!  he  had  done  nothing. 

Oh!  the  long,  heartbreaking,  cruel  Sundays!  Con- 
sider that,  mingled  with  all  these  perplexities  in  his 
mind,  was  the  superstitious  reverence  of  the  common 
people  for  holy  days,  for  the  twenty-four  hours  of  rest, 
wherein  one  recovers  strength  and  courage.  If  he  had 
gone  out,  the  sight  of  a  workingman  with  his  wife  and 
child  would  have  made  him  weep,  but  his  monastic 
seclusion  gave  him  other  forms  of  suffering,  the  despair 
of  recluses,  their  terrible  outbreaks  of  rebellion  when 
the  god  to  whom  they  have  consecrated  themselves 
does  not  respond  to  their  sacrifices.  Now,  Risler's  god 
was  work,  and  as  he  no  longer  found  comfort  or  seren- 
ity therein,  he  no  longer  believed  in  it,  but  cursed  it. 

Often  in  those  hours  of  mental  struggle  the  door  of 
the  draughting-room  would  open  gently  and  Claire 
Fromont  would  appear.  The  poor  man's  loneliness 
throughout  those  long  Sunday  afternoons  filled  her 
with  compassion,  and  she  would  come  with  her  little 
girl  to  keep  him  company,  knowing  by  experience  how 
contagious  is  the  sweet  joyousness  of  children.    The 

[308] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

little  one,  who  could  now  walk  alone,  would  slip  from 
her  mother's  arms  to  run  to  her  friend.  Risler  would 
hear  the  little,  hurrying  steps.  He  would  feel  the  light 
breath  behind  him,  and  instantly  he  would  be  conscious 
of  a  soothing,  rejuvenating  influence.  She  would 
throw  her  plump  little  arms  around  his  neck  with 
affectionate  warmth,  with  her  artless,  causeless  laugh, 
and  a  kiss  from  that  little  mouth  which  never  had  lied. 
Claire  Fromont,  standing  in  the  doorway,  would  smile 
as  she  looked  at  them. 

"Risler,  my  friend,"  she  would  say,  "you  must  come 
down  into  the  garden  a  while, — you  work  too  hard. 
You  wm  be  iU." 

"No,  no,  Madame, — on  the  contrary,  work  is  what 
saves  me.    It  keeps  me  from  thinking." 

Then,  after  a  long  pause,  she  would  continue: 

"Come,  my  dear  Risler,  you  must  try  to  forget." 

Risler  would  shake  his  head. 

"Forget?  Is  that  possible?  There  are  some  things 
beyond  one's  strength.  A  man  may  forgive,  but  he 
never  forgets." 

The  child  almost  always  succeeded  in  dragging  him 
down  to  the  garden.  He  must  play  ball,  or  in  the  sand, 
with  her;  but  her  playfellow's  awkwardness  and  lack 
of  enthusiasm  soon  impressed  the  little  girl.  Then  she 
would  become  very  sedate,  contenting  herself  with 
walking  gravely  between  the  hedges  of  box,  with  her 
hand  in  her  friend's.  After  a  moment  Risler  would 
entirely  forget  that  she  was  there;  but,  although  he 
did  not  realize  it,  the  warmth  of  that  little  hand  in  his 
had  a  magnetic,  softening  effect  upon  his  diseased  mind. 

[309] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

A  man  may  forgive,  but  he  never  forgets! 

Poor  Claire  herself  knew  something  about  it ;  for  she 
had  never  forgotten,  notwithstanding  her  great  courage 
and  the  conception  she  had  formed  of  her  duty.  To 
her,  as  to  Risler,  her  surroundings  were  a  constant  re- 
minder of  her  sufferings.  The  objects  amid  which  she 
Hved  pitilessly  reopened  the  wound  that  was  ready  to 
close.  The  staircase,  the  garden,  the  courtyard,  all 
those  dumb  witnesses  of  her  husband's  sin,  assumed  on 
certain  days  an  implacable  expression.  Even  the  care- 
ful precaution  her  husband  took  to  spare  her  painful 
reminders,  the  way  in  which  he  called  attention  to  the 
fact  that  he  no  longer  went  out  in  the  evening,  and  took 
pains  to  tell  her  where  he  had  been  during  the  day, 
served  only  to  remind  her  the  more  forcibly  of  his 
wrong-doing.  Sometimes  she  longed  to  ask  him  to 
forbear, — to  say  to  him:  "Do  not  protest  too  much." 
Faith  was  shattered  within  her,  and  the  horrible  agony 
of  the  priest  who  doubts,  and  seeks  at  the  same  time  to 
remain  faithful  to  his  vows,  betrayed  itself  in  her  bitter 
smile,  her  cold,  uncomplaining  gentleness. 

Georges  was  wofuUy  unhappy.  He  loved  his  wife 
now.  The  nobility  of  her  character  had  conquered 
him.  There  was  admiration  in  his  love,  and — why  not 
say  it  ? — Claire's  sorrow  filled  the  place  of  the  coquetry 
which  was  contrary  to  her  nature,  the  lack  of  which 
had  always  been  a  defect  in  her  husband's  eyes.  He 
was  one  of  that  strange  type  of  men  who  love  to  make 
conquests.  Sidonie,  capricious  and  cold  as  she  was, 
responded  to  that  whim  of  his  heart.  After  parting 
from  her  with  a  tender  farewell,  he  found  her  indiffer- 

[310] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

ent  and  forgetful  the  next  day,  and  that  continual  need 
of  wooing  her  back  to  him  took  the  place  of  genuine 
passion.  Serenity  in  love  bored  him  as  a  voyage  with- 
out storms  wearies  a  sailor.  On  this  occasion  he  had 
been  very  near  shipwreck  with  his  wife,  and  the  danger 
had  not  passed  even  yet.  He  knew  that  Claire  was 
alienated  from  him  and  devoted  entirely  to  the  child, — 
the  only  link  between  them  thenceforth.  Their  sepa- 
ration made  her  seem  lovelier,  more  desirable,  and  he 
exercised  all  his  powers  of  fascination  to  recapture  her. 
He  knew  how  hard  a  task  it  would  be,  and  that  he  had 
no  ordinary,  frivolous  nature  to  deal  with.  But  he  did 
not  despair.  Sometimes  a  vague  gleam  in  the  depths 
of  the  mild  and  apparently  impassive  glance  with  which 
she  watched  his  efforts,  bade  him  hope. 

As  for  Sidonie,  he  no  longer  thought  of  her.  Let  ho 
one  be  astonished  at  that  abrupt  mental  rupture.  Those 
two  superficial  beings  had  nothing  to  attach  them  se- 
curely to  each  other.  Georges  was  incapable  of  receiv- 
ing lasting  impressions  unless  they  were  continually 
renewed;  Sidonie,  for  her  part,  had  no  power  to  in- 
spire any  noble  or  durable  sentiment.  It  was  one  of 
those  intrigues  between  a  cocotte  and  a  coxcomb,  com- 
pounded of  vanity  and  of  wounded  self-love,  which 
inspire  neither  devotion  nor  constancy,  but  tragic 
adventures,  duels,  suicides  which  are  rarely  fatal,  and 
which  end  in  a  radical  cure.  Perhaps,  had  he  seen  her 
again ,  he  might  have  had  a  relapse  of  his  disease ;  but 
the  impetus  of  flight  had  carried  Sidonie  away  so  swiftly 
and  so  far  that  her  return  was  impossible.  At  all  events, 
it  was  a  relief  for  him  to  be  able  to  live  without  lying; 

[311] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

and  the  new  life  he  was  leading,  a  life  of  hard  work  and 
self-denial,  with  the  goal  of  success  in  the  distance,  was 
not  distasteful  to  him.  Luckily;  for  the  courage  and 
determination  of  both  partners  were  none  too  much  to 
put  the  house  on  its  feet  once  more. 

The  poor  house  of  Fromont  had  sprung  leaks  on  all 
sides.  So  Pere  Planus  still  had  wretched  nights, 
haunted  by  the  nightmare  of  notes  maturing  and  the 
ominous  vision  of  the  little  blue  man.  But,  by  strict 
economy,  they  always  succeeded  in  paying. 

Soon  four  Risler  Presses  were  definitively  set  up  and 
used  in  the  work  of  the  factory.  People  began  to  take 
a  deep  interest  in  them  and  in  the  wall-paper  trade. 
Lyons,  Caen,  Rixbeim,  the  great  centres  of  the  indus- 
try, were  much  disturbed  concerning  that  marvellous 
"rotary  and  dodecagonal"  machine.  One  fine  day 
the  Prochassons  appeared,  and  offered  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  simply  for  an  interest  in  the  patent 
rights. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  Fromont  Jeune  asked  Risler 
Aine. 

The  latter  shrugged  his  shoulders  indifferently. 

"  Decide  for  yourself .  It  doesn't  concern  me.  lam 
only  an  employe." 

The  words,  spoken  coldly,  without  anger,  fell  heavily 
upon  Fromont's  bewildered  joy,  and  reminded  him  of 
the  gravity  of  a  situation  which  he  was  always  on  the 
point  of  forgetting. 

But  when  he  was  alone  with  his  dear  Madame 
"Chorche,"  Risler  advised  her  not  to  accept  the  Pro- 
chassons'. offer. 

[312] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"Wait, — don't  be  in  a  hurry.  Later  you  will  have 
a  better  offer." 

He  spoke  only  of  them  in  that  affair  in  which  his  own 
share  was  so  glorious.  She  felt  that  he  was  preparing 
to  cut  himself  adrift  from  their  future. 

Meanwhile  orders  came  pouring  in  and  accumulated 
on  their  hands.  The  quality  of  the  paper,  the  reduced 
price  because  of  the  improved  methods  of  manufacture, 
made  competition  impossible.  There  was  no  doubt 
that  a  colossal  fortune  was  in  store  for  the  house  of 
Fromont.  The  factory  had  resumed  its  former  flour- 
ishing aspect  and  its  loud,  business-like  hum.  In- 
tensely aUve  were  all  the  great  buildings  and  the  hun- 
dreds of  workmen  who  filled  them.  Pere  Planus  never 
raised  his  nose  from  his  desk;  one  could  see  him  from 
the  little  garden,  leaning  over  his  great  ledgers,  jotting 
down  in  magnificently  molded  figures  the  profits  of  the 
Risler  press. 

Risler  still  worked  as  before,  without  change  or  rest. 
The  return  of  prosperity  brought  no  alteration  in  his 
secluded  habits,  and  from  the  highest  window  on  the 
topmost  floor  of  the  house  he  listened  to  the  ceaseless 
roar  of  his  machines.  He  was  no  less  gloomy,  no  less 
silent.  One  day,  however,  it  became  known  at  the  fac- 
tory that  the  press,  a  specimen  of  which  had  been  sent 
to  the  great  Exposition  at  Manchester,  had  received  the 
gold  medal,  whereby  its  success  was  definitely  estab- 
lished. Madame  Georges  called  Risler  into  the  garden 
at  the  luncheon  hour,  wishing  to  be  the  first  to  tell  him 
the  good  news. 

For  the  moment  a  proud  smile  relaxed  his  prema- 
[313] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

turely  old,  gloomy  features.  His  inventor's  vanity,  his 
pride  in  his  renown,  above  all,  the  idea  of  repairing 
thus  magnificently  the  wrong  done  to  the  family  by  his 
wife,  gave  him  a  moment  of  true  happiness.  He 
pressed  Claire's  hands  and  murmured,  as  in  the  old 
days: 

"I  am  very  happy!    I  am  very  happy!" 

But  what  a  difference  in  tone!  He  said  it  without 
enthusiasm,  hopelessly,  with  the  satisfaction  of  a  task 
accomplished,  and  nothing  more. 

The  bell  rang  for  the  workmen  to  return,  and  Risler 
went  calmly  upstairs  to  resume  his  work  as  on  other 
days. 

In  a  moment  he  came  down  again.  In  spite  of  all, 
that  news  had  excited  him  more  than  he  cared  to  show. 
He  wandered  about  the  garden,  prowled  around  the 
counting-room,  smiling  sadly  at  Pere  Planus  through 
the  window. 

*  *  What  ails  him  ?  "  the  old  cashier  wondered .  ' '  What 
does  he  want  of  me  ?  " 

At  last,  when  night  came  and  it  was  time  to  close  the 
ofl5ce,  Risler  summoned  courage  to  go  and  speak  to 
him. 

"Planus,  my  old  friend,  I  should  like " 

He  hesitated  a  moment. 

**I  should  like  you  to  give  me  the — letter,  you  know, 
the  little  letter  and  the  package." 

Sigismond  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  In  his  inno- 
cence, he  had  imagined  that  Risler  never  thought  of 
Sidonie,  that  he  had  entirely  forgotten  her. 

"What— you  want—?" 

l3Mj 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"Ah!  I  have  well  earned  it;  I  can  think  of  myself  a 
little  now.    I  have  thought  enough  of  others." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Planus.  "Well,  this  is  what 
we'll  do.  The  letter  and  package  are  at  my  house  at 
Montrouge.  If  you  choose,  we  will  go  and  dine  to- 
gether at  the  Palais- Royal,  as  in  the  good  old  times.  I 
will  stand  treat.  We'll  water  your  medal  with  a  bottle 
of  wine;  something  choice!  Then  we'll  go  to  the  house 
together.  You  can  get  your  trinkets,  and  if  it's  too 
late  for  you  to  go  home,  Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sis- 
ter, shall  make  up  a  bed  for  you,  and  you  shall  pass  the 
night  with  us.  We  are  very  comfortable  there — it's  in 
the  country.  To-morrow  morning  at  seven  o'clock 
we'll  come  back  to  the  factory  by  the  first  omnibus. 
Gome,  old  fellow,  give  me  this  pleasure.  If  you  don't, 
I  shall  think  you  still  bear  your  old  Sigismond  a  grudge." 

Risler  accepted.  He  cared  little  about  celebrating 
the  award  of  his  medal,  but  he  desired  to  gain  a  few 
hours  before  opening  the  little  letter  he  had  at  last 
earned  the  right  to  read. 

He  must  dress.  That  was  quite  a  serious  matter, 
for  he  had  lived  in  a  workman's  jacket  during  the  past 
six  months.  And  what  an  event  in  the  factory!  Ma- 
dame Fromont  was  informed  at  once. 

' '  Madame ,  Madame !   Monsieur  Risler  is  going  out ! " 

Claire  looked  at  him  from  her  window,  and  that  tall 
form,  bowed  by  sorrow,  leaning  on  Sigismond's  arm, 
aroused  in  her  a  profound,  unusual  emotion  which  she 
remembered  ever  after. 

In  the  street  people  bowed  to  Risler  with  great  inter- 
est.   Even  their  greetings  warmed  his  heart.    He  was 

[315] 


ALPHONSE  DAIJDET 

so  much  in  need  of  kindness !  But  the  noise  of  vehicles 
made  him  a  Httle  dizzy. 

"My  head  is  spinning,"  he  said  to  Planus. 

''Lean  hard  on  me,  old  fellow — don't  be  afraid." 

And  honest  Planus  drew  himself  up,  escorting  his 
friend  with  the  artless,  unconventional  pride  of  a  peas- 
ant of  the  South  bearing  aloft  his  village  saint. 

At  last  they  arrived  at  the  Palais-Royal. 

The  garden  was  full  of  people.  They  had  come  to 
hear  the  music,  and  were  trying  to  find  seats  amid 
clouds  of  dust  and  the  scraping  of  chairs.  The  two 
friends  hurried  into  the  restaurant  to  avoid  all  that  tur- 
moil. They  established  themselves  in  one  of  the  large 
salons  on  the  first  floor,  whence  they  could  see  the 
green  trees,  the  promenaders,  and  the  water  spurting 
from  the  fountain  between  the  two  melancholy  flower- 
gardens.  To  Sigismond  it  was  the  ideal  of  luxury,  that 
restaurant,  with  gilding  everywhere,  around  the  mir- 
rors, in  the  chandelier  and  even  on  the  figured  wall- 
paper. The  white  napkin,  the  roll,  the  menu  of  a  table 
d'hote  dinner  filled  his  soul  with  joy. 

"We  are  comfortable  here,  aren't  we?"  he  said  to 
Risler. 

And  he  exclaimed  at  each  of  the  courses  of  that 
banquet  at  two  francs  fifty,  and  insisted  on  filling  his 
friend's  plate. 

"Eat  that— it's  good." 

The  other,  notwithstanding  his  desire  to  do  honor  to 
the  jHe,  seemed  preoccupied  and  gazed  out-of-doors. 

"Do  you  remember,  Sigismond?"  he  said,  after  a 
pause, 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

The  old  cashier,  engrossed  in  his  memories  of  long 
ago,  of  Risler's  first  employment  at  the  factory,  replied : 

*'I  should  think  I  do  remember — listen!  The  first 
time  we  dined  together  at  the  Palais-Royal  was  in  Feb- 
ruary, 'forty-six,  the  year  we  put  in  the  planches-plates 
at  the  factory." 

Risler  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh !  no — I  mean  three  years  ago.  It  was  in  that  room 
just  opposite  that  we  dined  on  that  memorable  evening." 

And  he  pointed  to  the  great  windows  of  the  salon  of 
Cafe  Vefour,  gleaming  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  like 
the  chandeliers  at  a  wedding  feast. 

"Ah!  yes,  true,"  murmured  Sigismond,  abashed. 
What  an  unlucky  idea  of  his  to  bring  his  friend  to  a 
place  that  recalled  such  painful  things! 

Risler,  not  wishing  to  cast  a  gloom  upon  their  ban- 
quet, abruptly  raised  his  glass. 

"Come!  here's  your  health,  my  old  comrade." 

He  tried  to  change  the  subject.  But  a  moment  later  he 
himself  led  the  conversation  back  to  it  again,  and  asked 
Sigismond,  in  an  undertone,  as  if  he  were  ashamed: 

' '  Have  you  seen  her  ?  " 

"Your  wife ?    No ,  never. ' ' 

"She  hasn't  written  again?" 

"No — never  again." 

"But  you  must  have  heard  of  her.  What  has  she 
been  doing  these  six  months?  Does  she  hve  with  her 
parents?" 

"No." 

Risler  turned  pale. 

He  hoped  that  Sidonie  would  have  returned  to  her 
[317] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

mother,  that  she  would  have  worked,  as  he  had  worked, 
to  forget  and  atone.  He  had  often  thought  that  he 
would  arrange  his  Hfe  according  to  what  he  should 
learn  of  her  when  he  should  have  the  right  to  speak  of 
her;  and  in  one  of  those  far-off  visions  of  the  future, 
which  have  the  vagueness  of  a  dream,  he  sometimes 
fancied  himself  living  in  exile  with  the  Chebes  in  an 
unknown  land,  where  nothing  would  remind  him  of 
his  past  shame.  It  was  not  a  definite  plan,  to  be  sure; 
but  the  thought  lived  in  the  depths  of  his  mind  like  a 
hope,  caused  by  the  need  that  all  human  creatures  feel 
of  finding  their  lost  happiness. 

"Is  she  in  Paris?"  he  asked,  after  a  few  moments* 
reflection. 

"No.  She  went  away  three  months  ago.  No  one 
knows  where  she  has  gone." 

Sigismond  did  not  add  that  she  had  gone  with  her 
Cazaboni,  whose  name  she  now  bore,  that  they  were 
making  the  circuit  of  the  provincial  cities  together,  that 
her  mother  was  in  despair,  never  saw  her,  and  heard 
of  her  only  through  Delobelle.  Sigismond  did  not  deem 
it  his  duty  to  mention  all  that,  and  after  his  last  words 
he  held  his  peace. 

Risler,  for  his  part,  dared  ask  no  further  questions. 

While  they  sat  there,  facing  each  other,  both  embar- 
rassed by  the  long  silence,  the  military  band  began  to 
play  under  the  trees  in  the  garden.  They  played  one 
of  those  Italian  operatic  overtures  which  seem  to  have 
been  written  expressly  for  public  open-air  resorts;  the 
swiftly-flowing  notes,  as  they  rise  into  the  air,  blend  with 
the  call  of  the  swallows  and  the  silvery  plash  of  the 

[318] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

fountain.  The  blaring  brass  brings  out  in  bold  relief 
the  mild  warmth  of  the  closing  hours  of  those  summer 
days,  so  long  and  enervating  in  Paris;  it  seems  as  if 
one  could  hear  nothing  else.  The  distant  rumbling  of 
wheels,  the  cries  of  children  playing,  the  footsteps  of 
the  promenaders  are  wafted  away  in  those  resonant, 
gushing,  refreshing  waves  of  melody,  as  useful  to  the 
people  of  Paris  as  the  daily  watering  of  their  streets. 
On  all  sides  the  faded  flowers,  the  trees  white  with  dust, 
the  faces  made  pale  and  wan  by  the  heat,  all  the  sor- 
rows, all  the  miseries  of  a  great  city,  sitting  dreamily, 
with  bowed  head,  on  the  benches  in  the  garden,  feel  its 
comforting,  refreshing  influence.  The  air  is  stirred, 
renewed  by  those  strains  that  traverse  it,  filling  it  with 
harmony. 

Poor  Risler  felt  as  if  the  tension  upon  all  his  nerves 
were  relaxed. 

"A  little  music  does  one  good,"  he  said,  with  gHsten- 
ing  eyes.  "  My  heart  is  heavy,  old  fellow,"  he  added,  in 
a  lower  tone;  "if  you  knew " 

They  sat  without  speaking,  their  elbows  resting  on 
the  window-sill,  while  their  coffee  was  served. 

Then  the  music  ceased,  the  garden  became  deserted. 
The  light  that  had  loitered  in  the  comers  crept  upward 
to  the  roofs,  cast  its  last  rays  upon  the  highest  window- 
panes,  followed  by  the  birds,  the  swallows,  which  saluted 
the  close  of  day  with  a  farewell  chirp  from  the  gutter 
where  they  were  huddled  together. 

"Now,  where  shall  we  go?"  said  Planus,  as  they  left 
the  restaurant. 

"Wherever  you  wish." 

[319] 


ALPHONSE  DAT  DET 

On  the  first  floor  of  a  building  on  the  Rue  Mont- 
pensier,  close  at  hand,  was  a  caje  chantant,  where  many 
people  entered. 

"Suppose  we  go  in,"  said  Planus,  desirous  of  ban- 
ishing his  friend's  melancholy  at  any  cost,  "the  beer  is 
excellent." 

Risler  assented  to  the  suggestion ;  he  had  not  tasted 
beer  for  six  months. 

It  was  a  former  restaurant  transfonned  into  a  concert- 
hall.  There  were  three  large  rooms,  separated  by 
gilded  pillars,  the  partitions  having  been  removed;  the 
decoration  was  in  the  ^loorish  style,  bright  red,  pale 
blue,  with  little  crescents  and  turbans  for  ornament. 

Although  it  was  still  early,  the  place  was  full;  and 
even  before  entering  one  had  a  feeling  of  suffocation, 
simply  from  seeing  the  crowds  of  people  sitting  around 
the  tables,  and  at  the  farther  end,  half-hidden  by  the 
rows  of  pillars,  a  group  of  white-robed  women  on  a 
raised  platform,  in  the  heat  and  glare  of  the  gas. 

Our  two  friends  had  much  difficulty  in  finding  seats, 
and  had  to  be  content  with  a  place  behind  a  pillar 
whence  they  could  see  only  half  of  the  platform,  then 
occupied  by  a  superb  person  in  black  coat  and  yellow 
gloves,  curled  and  waxed  and  oiled,  who  was  singing  in 
a  vibrating  voice : 

I  Mes  beaux  lions  aux  crins  dorfe, 

Du  sang  des  troupeaux  alteres, 
Halte  la! — Je  fais  sentinello  !  * 

*  My  proud  lions  with  golden  manes 
Who  thirst  for  the  blood  of  my  flocks, 
Stand  back  ! — I  am  on  guard  ! 

[320] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

The  audience — small  tradesmen  of  the  quarter  with 
their  wives  and  daughters — seemed  highly  enthusias- 
tic: especially  the  women.  He  represented  so  perfectly 
the  ideal  of  the  shopkeeper  imagination,  that  magnifi- 
cent shepherd  of  the  desert,  who  addressed  lions  with 
such  an  air  of  authority  and  tended  his  flocks  in  full 
evening  dress.  And  so,  despite  their  bourgeois  bearing, 
their  modest  costumes  and  their  expressionless  shop- 
girl smiles,  all  those  women,  made  up  their  little  mouths 
to  be  caught  by  the  hook  of  sentiment,  and  cast  lan- 
guishing glances  upon  the  singer.  It  was  truly  comical 
to  see  that  glance  at  the  platform  suddenly  change  and 
become  contemptuous  and  fierce  as  it  fell  upon  the 
husband,  the  poor  husband  tranquilly  drinking  a  glass 
of  beer  opposite  his  wife :  "You  would  never  be  capable 
of  doing  sentry  duty  in  the  very  teeth  of  lions,  and  in  a 
black  coat  too,  and  with  yellow  gloves!" 

And  the  husband's  eye  seemed  to  reply: 

"Ah!  dame,,  yes,  he's  quite  a  dashing  buck,  that 
fellow." 

Being  decidedly  indifferent  to  heroism  of  that 
stamp,  Risler  and  Sigismond  were  drinking  their  beer 
without  paying  much  attention  to  the  music,  when,  at 
the  end  of  the  song,  amid  the  applause  and  cries  and 
uproar  that  followed  it,  Pere  Planus  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation : 

"Why,  that  is  odd;  one  would  say — but  no,  I'm 
not  mistaken.    It  is  he,  it's  Delobelle!" 

It  was,  in  fact,  the  illustrious  actor,  whom  he  had 
discovered  in  the  front  row  near  the  platform.  His 
gray  head  was  turned  partly  away  from  theni.  He 
21  [321] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

was  leaning  carelessly  against  a  pillar,  hat  in  hand,  in 
his  grand  make-up  as  leading  man:  dazzlingly  white 
linen,  hair  curled  with  the  tongs,  black  coat  with  a 
camellia  in  the  buttonhole,  like  the  ribbon  of  an  order. 
He  glanced  at  the  crowd  from  time  to  time  with  a 
patronizing  air:  but  his  eyes  were  most  frequently 
turned  toward  the  platform,  with  encouraging  little 
gestures  and  smiles  and  pretended  applause,  addressed 
to  some  one  whom  Pere  Planus  could  not  see  from  his 
seat. 

There  was  nothing  very  extraordinary  in  the  presence 
of  the  illustrious  Delobelle  at  a  caje  concert,  as  he  spent 
all  his  evenings  away  from  home;  and  yet  the  old 
cashier  felt  vaguely  disturbed,  especially  when  he  dis- 
covered in  the  same  row  a  blue  cape  and  a  pair  of  steely 
eyes.  It  was  Madame  Dobson,  the  sentimental  sing- 
ing-teacher. The  conjunction  of  those  two  faces  amid 
the  pipe-smoke  and  the  confusion  of  the  crowd,  pro- 
duced upon  Sigismond  the  effect  of  two  ghosts  evoked 
by  a  bad  dream.  He  was  afraid  for  his  friend,  without 
knowing  exactly  why;  and  suddenly  it  occurred  to 
him  to  take  him  away. 

"Let  us  go,  Risler.  The  heat  here  is  enough  to  kill 
one." 

Just  as  they  rose — for  Risler  was  no  more  desirous 
to  stay  than  to  go — the  orchestra,  consisting  of  a  piano 
and  several  violins,  began  a  peculiar  refrain.  There 
was  a  flutter  of  curiosity  throughout  the  room,  and  cries 
of  "  Hush !   hush !  sit  down ! " 

They  were  obliged  to  resume  their  seats.  Risler,  too, 
was  beginning  to  be  disturbed. 

[322] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

''I  know  that  tune,"  he  said  to  himself.  ** Where 
have  I  heard  it?" 

A  thunder  of  applause  and  an  exclamation  from 
Planus  made  him  raise  his  eyes. 

''Come,  come,  let  us  go,"  said  the  cashier,  trying  to 
lead  him  away. 

But  it  was  too  late. 

Risler  had  already  seen  his  wife  come  forward  to  the 
front  of  the  stage  and  curtsey  to  the  audience  with  a 
ballet-dancer's  smile. 

She  wore  a  white  gown,  as  on  the  night  of  the  ball; 
but  her  whole  costume  was  much  less  rich  and  shock- 
ingly immodest. 

The  dress  was  barely  caught  together  at  the  shoul- 
ders; her  hair  floated  in  a  blond  mist  low  over  her 
eyes,  and  around  her  neck  was  a  necklace  of  pearls  too 
large  to  be  real,  alternated  with  bits  of  tinsel.  Delo- 
belle  was  right:  the  Bohemian  life  was  better  suited 
to  her.  Her  beauty  had  gained  an  indefinably  reckless 
expression,  which  was  its  most  characteristic  feature, 
and  made  her  a  perfect  type  of  the  woman  who  has 
escaped  from  all  restraint,  placed  herself  at  the  mercy 
of  every  accident,  and  is  descending  stage  by  stage  to 
the  lowest  depths  of  the  Parisian  hell,  from  which 
nothing  is  powerful  enough  to  lift  her  and  restore  her 
to  the  pure  air  and  the  light. 

And  how  perfectly  at  ease  she  seemed  in  her  strolling 
life !  With  what  self-possession  she  walked  to  the  front 
of  the  stage!  Ah!  could  she  have  seen  the  desperate, 
terrible  glance  fixed  upon  her  down  there  in  the  hall, 
concealed  behind  a  pillar,  her  smile  would  have  lost 

[323] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

that  equivocal  placidity,  her  voice  would  have  sought 
in  vain  those  wheedling,  languorous  tones  in  which  she 
warbled  the  only  song  Madame  Dobson  had  ever  been 
able  to  teach  her: 

Pauv'  pitit  Mamz'elle  Zizi, 
C'est  I'amou,  I'amou  qui  tourne 
La  tete  a  li. 

Risler  had  risen,  in  spite  of  Planus's  efforts. 
''Sit  down!  sit  down!"  the  people  shouted. 
The  wretched  man  heard  nothing.    He  was  staring 
at  his  wife. 

C'est  I'amou,  I'amou  qui  tourne 
La  tete  a  li, 

Sidonie  repeated  affectedly. 

For  a  moment  he  wondered  whether  he  should  not 
leap  on  the  platform  and  kill  her.  Red  flames  shot 
before  his  eyes,  and  he  was  blinded  with  frenzy. 

Then,  suddenly,  shame  and  disgust  seized  upon  him 
and  he  rushed  from  the  hall,  overturning  chairs  and 
tables,  pursued  by  the  terror  and  imprecations  of  all 
those  scandalized  bourgeois. 


[324] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

sidonie's  vengeance 

'ever  had  Sigismond  Planus  returned 
home  so  late  without  giving  his  sister 
warning,  during  the  twenty  years  and 
more  that  he  had  lived  at  Montrouge. 
Consequently  Mademoiselle  Planus 
was  greatly  worried.  Living  in  com- 
munity of  ideas  and  of  everything 
else  with  her  brother,  having  but  one 
mind  for  herself  and  for  him,  the  old  maid  had  felt  for 
several  months  the  rebound  of  all  the  cashier's  anxiety 
and  indignation;  and  the  effect  was  still  noticeable  in 
her  tendency  to  tremble  and  become  agitated  on  slight 
provocation.  At  the  slightest  tardiness  on  Sigismond 's 
part,  she  would  think: 

"Ah!  mon  Dieu!  If  only  nothing  has  happened  at 
the  factory!" 

That  is  the  reason  why  on  the  evening  in  question, 
when  the  hens  and  chickens  were  all  asleep  on  their 
perches,  and  the  dinner  had  been  removed  untouched, 
Mademoiselle  Planus  was  sitting  in  the  little  ground- 
floor  living-room,  waiting,  in  great  agitation. 

At  last,  about  eleven  o'clock,  some  one  rang.  A 
timid,  melancholy  ring,  in  no  wise  resembling  Sigis- 
mond's  vigorous  pull. 

[325] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

"Is  it  you,  Monsieur  Planus?"  queried  the  old  lady 
from  behind  the  door. 

It  was  he;  but  he  was  not  alone.  A  tall,  bent  old 
man  accompanied  him,  and,  as  they  entered,  bade  her 
good-evening  in  a  slow,  hesitating  voice.  Not  till  then 
did  Mademoiselle  Planus  recognize  Risler  Aine,  whom 
she  had  not  seen  since  the  days  of  the  New  Year's  calls, 
that  is  to  say,  some  time  before  the  dramas  at  the 
factory.  She  could  hardly  restrain  an  exclamation  of 
pity;  but  the  grave  taciturnity  of  the  two  men  told  her 
that  she  must  be  silent. 

"Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister,  you  will  put  clean 
sheets  on  my  bed.  Our  friend  Risler  does  us  the  honor 
to  pass  the  night  with  us." 

The  sister  hastened  away  to  prepare  the  bedroom 
with  an  almost  affectionate  zeal;  for,  as  we  know,  be- 
side "Monsieur  Planus,  my  brother,"  Risler  was  the 
only  man  excepted  from  the  general  reprobation  in 
which  she  enveloped  the  whole  male  sex. 

Upon  leaving  the  cafe  concert,  Sidonie's  husband 
had  had  a  moment  of  frantic  excitement.  He  leaned 
on  Planus' s  arm,  every  nerve  in  his  body  strained 
to  the  utmost.  At  that  moment  he  had  no  thought 
of  going  to  Montrouge  to  get  the  letter  and  the  pack- 
age. 

"Leave  me — ^go  away,"  he  said  to  Sigismond.  "I 
must  be  alone." 

But  the  other  knew  better  than  to  abandon  him  thus 
to  his  despair.  Unnoticed  by  Risler,  he  led  him  away 
from  the  factory,  and  as  his  affectionate  heart  suggested 
to  the  old  cashier  what  he  had  best  say  to  his  friend, 

[326] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

he  talked  to  him  all  the  time  of  Frantz,  his  little  Frantz 
whom  he  loved  so  dearly. 

*'That  was  genuine  affection,  genuine  and  trust- 
worthy.  No  treachery  to  fear  with  such  hearts  as  that ! " 

While  they  talked  they  left  behind  them  the  noisy 
streets  of  the  centre  of  Paris.  They  walked  along  the 
quays,  skirted  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  plunged  into 
Faubourg  Saint-Marceau.  Risler  followed  where  the 
other  led.    Sigismond's  words  did  him  so  much  good! 

In  due  time  they  came  to  the  Bifevre,  bordered  at  that 
point  with  tanneries  whose  tall  drying-houses  with  open 
sides  were  outlined  in  blue  against  the  sky;  and  then 
the  ill-defined  plains  of  Montsouris,  vast  tracts  of  land 
scorched  and  stripped  of  vegetation  by  the  fiery  breath 
that  Paris  exhales  around  its  daily  toil,  like  a  monstrous 
dragon,  whose  breath  of  flame  and  smoke  suffers  no 
vegetation  within  its  range. 

From  Montsouris  to  the  fortifications  of  Montrouge 
is  but  a  step.  When  they  had  reached  that  point. 
Planus  had  no  great  difficulty  in  taking  his  friend  home 
with  him.  He  thought,  and  justly,  that  his  tranquil 
fireside,  the  spectacle  of  a  placid,  fraternal,  devoted 
affection,  would  give  the  wretched  man's  heart  a  sort 
of  foretaste  of  the  happiness  that  was  in  store  for  him 
with  his  brother  Frantz.  And,  in  truth,  the  charm  of 
the  little  household  began  to  work  as  soon  as  they 
arrived. 

"Yes,  yes,  you  are  right,  old  fellow,"  said  Risler, 
pacing  the  floor  of  the  living-room,  "I  mustn't  think 
of  that  woman  any  more.  She's  like  a  dead  woman  to 
me  now.    1  have  nobody  left  in  the  world  but  my  little 

[327] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

Frantz;  I  don't  know  yet  whether  I  shall  send  for  him 
to  come  home,  or  go  out  and  join  him;  the  one  thing 
that  is  certain  is  that  we  are  going  to  stay  together.  Ah ! 
I  longed  so  to  have  a  son!  Now  I  have  found  one.  I 
want  no  other.  When  I  think  that  for  a  moment  I  had 
an  idea  of  killing  myself!  Nonsense!  it  would  make 
Madame  What-d'ye-call-her,  yonder,  too  happy.  On 
the  contrary,  I  mean  to  live — to  live  with  my  Frantz, 
and  for  him,  and  for  nothing  else." 

"Bravo!"  said  Sigismond,  "that's  the  way  I  like  to 
hear  you  talk." 

At  that  moment  Mademoiselle  Planus  came  to  say 
that  the  room  was  ready. 

Risler  apologized  for  the  trouble  he  was  causing  them. 

"You  are  so  comfortable,  so  happy  here.  Really, 
it's  too  bad  to  burden  you  with  my  melancholy." 

"Ah!  my  old  friend,  you  can  arrange  just  such  hap- 
piness as  ours  for  yourself,"  said  honest  Sigismond  with 
beaming  face.  "I  have  my  sister,  you  have  your 
brother.    What  do  we  lack  ?  " 

Risler  smiled  vaguely.  He  fancied  himself  already 
installed  with  Frantz  in  a  quiet  little  quakerish  house 
like  that. 

Decidedly,  that  was  an  excellent  idea  of  Pere  Planus. 

"Come  to  bed,"  he  said  triumphantly.  "We'll  go 
and  show  you  your  room." 

Sigismond  Planus' s  bedroom  was  on  the  ground  floor, 
a  large  room  simply  but  neatly  furnished,  with  muslin 
curtains  at  the  windows  and  the  bed,  and  little  squares 
of  carpet  on  the  polished  floor,  in  front  of  the  chairs. 
The  dowager  Madame  Fromont  herself  could  have 

[328] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

found  nothing  to  say  as  to  the  orderly  and  cleanly  aspect 
of  the  place.  On  a  shelf  or  two  against  the  wall  were  a 
few  books:  Maniml  oj  Fishing,  The  Perject  Country 
Housewije,  Bareme's  Book-keeping.  That  was  the 
whole  of  the  intellectual  equipment  of  the  room. 

Pere  Planus  glanced  proudly  around.  The  glass  of 
water  was  in  its  place  on  the  walnut  table,  the  box  of 
razors  on  the  dressing-case. 

''You  see,  Risler.  Here  is  everything  you  need. 
And  if  you  should  want  anything  else,  the  keys  are  in 
all  the  drawers — you  have  only  to  turn  them.  Just  see 
what  a  beautiful  view  you  get  from  here.  It's  a  little 
dark  just  now,  but  when  you  wake  up  in  the  morning 
you'll  see;  it  is  magnificent." 

He  opened  the  widow.  Great  drops  of  rain  were  be- 
ginning to  fall,  and  lightning  flashes  rending  the  dark- 
ness disclosed  the  long,  silent  line  of  the  fortifications, 
with  telegraph  poles  at  intervals,  or  the  frowning  door 
of  a  casemate.  Now  and  then  the  footsteps  of  a  patrol 
making  the  rounds,  the  clash  of  muskets  or  swords, 
reminded  them  that  they  were  within  the  military  zone. 

That  was  the  outlook  so  vaunted  by  Planus — a  mel- 
ancholy outlook  if  ever  there  were  one. 

"And  now  good-night.    Sleep  well!"  ' 

But,  as  the  old  cashier  was  leaving  the  room,  his 
friend  called  him  back: 

"Sigismond." 

"Here!"  said  Sigismond,  and  he  waited. 

Risler  blushed  slightly  and  moved  his  lips  like  a  man 
who  is  about  to  speak;  then,  with  a  mighty  effort,  he 
said: 

[329] 


ALPHONSE  DAUBET 

"No,  nb — nothing.    Good-night,  old  man." 

In  the  dining-room  the  brother  and  sister  talked  to- 
gether a  long  while  in  low  tones.  Planus  described  the 
terrible  occurrence  of  the  evening,  the  meeting  with 
Sidonie ;  and  you  can  imagine  the  "  Oh !  these  women ! " 
and  "  Oh !  these  men ! "  At  last,  when  they  had  locked 
the  little  garden-door,  Mademoiselle  Planus  went  Up  to 
her  room,  and  Sigismond  made  himself  as  comfortable 
as  possible  in  a  small  cabinet  adjoining. 

About  midnight  the  cashier  was  aroused  by  his  sister 
calling  him  in  a  terrified  whisper: 

*' Monsieur  Planus,  my  brother?" 

''What  is  it?" 

"Did  you  hear?" 

**No.    What?" 

*'0h!  it  was  awful.  Something  like  a  deep  sigh,  but 
so  loud  and  so  sad !   It  came  from  the  room  below." 

They  listened.  Without,  the  rain  was  falling  in  tor- 
tents,  with  the  dreary  rustling  of  leaves  that  makes  the 
country  seem  so  lonely. 

"That  is  only  the  wind,"  said  Planus. 

**I  am  sure  not.    Hush!   Listen!" 

Amid  the  tumult  of  the  storm,  they  heard  a  wailing 
sound,  like  a  sob,  in  which  a  name  was  pronounced  with 
difficulty: 
,    "Frantz!  Frantz!" 

It  was  terrible  and  pitiful. 

When  Christ  on  the  Cross  sent  up  to  heaven  His  de- 
spairing cry:  Eli,  eli,  lama  saba€hthani,  they  who  heard 
him  must  have  felt  the  same  species  of  superstitious 
terror  that  suddenly  seized  upon  Mademoiselle  Planus. 

I330] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

"I  am  afraid!"  she  whispered;  "suppose  you  go  and 
look " 

"No,  no,  we  will  let  him  alone.  He  is  thinking  of 
his  brother.  Poor  fellow!  It's  the  very  thought  of  all 
others  that  will  do  him  the  most  good." 

And  the  old  cashier  went  to  sleep  again. 

The  next  morning  he  woke  as  usual  when  the  drums 
beat  the  reveille  in  the  fortifications;  for  the  little 
family,  surrounded  by  barracks,  regulated  its  life  by 
the  military  calls.  The  sister  had  already  risen  and 
was  feeding  the  poultry.  When  she  saw  Sigismond  she 
came  to  him  in  agitation. 

" It  is  very  strange,"  she  said,  "I  hear  nothing  stirring 
in  Monsieur  Risler's  room.  But  the  window  is  wide 
open." 

Sigismond,  greatly  surprised,  went  and  knocked  at 
his  friend's  door. 

"Risler!  Risler!" 

He  called  in  great  anxiety: 

"  Risler,  are  you  there  ?   Are  you  asleep  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply.    He  opened  the  door. 

The  room  was  cold.  It  was  evident  that  the  damp 
air  had  been  blowing  in  all  night  through  the  open 
window.  At  the  first  glance  at  the  bed,  Sigismond 
thought :  "  He  hasn't  been  in  bed  " — for  the  clothes  were 
undisturbed  and  the  condition  of  the  room,  even  in  the 
most  trivial  details,  revealed  an  agitated  vigil:  the  still 
smoking  lamp,  which  he  had  neglected  to  extinguish, 
the  carafe,  drained  to  the  last  drop  by  the  fever  of  sleep- 
lessness; but  the  thing  that  filled  the  cashier  with  dis- 
may was  to  find  the  bureau  drawer  wide  open  in  which 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

he  had  carefully  bestowed  the  letter  and  package  en- 
trusted to  him  by  his  friend. 

The  letter  was  no  longer  there.  The  package  lay  on 
the  table,  open,  revealing  a  photograph  of  Sidonie  at 
fifteen.  With  her  high-necked  frock,  her  rebellious 
hair  parted  over  the  forehead,  and  the  embarrassed 
pose  of  an  awkward  girl,  the  little  Chebe  of  the  old  days, 
Mademoiselle  Le  Mire's  apprentice,  bore  little  resem- 
blance to  the  Sidonie  of  to-day.  And  that  was  the  reason 
why  Risler  had  kept  that  photograph,  as  a  souvenir, 
not  of  his  wife,  but  of  the  "Httle  one." 

Sigismond  was  in  great  dismay. 

"This  is  my  fault,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  ought  to 
have  taken  away  the  keys.  But  who  would  have  sup- 
posed that  he  was  still  thinking  of  her  ?  He  had  sworn 
so  many  times  that  that  woman  no  longer  existed  for 
him." 

At  that  moment  Mademoiselle  Planus  entered  the 
room  with  consternation  written  on  her  face. 

"Monsieur  Risler  has  gone!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Gone?    Why,  wasn't  the  garden-gate  locked?" 

"He  must  have  climbed  over  the  wall.  You  can  see 
his  footprints." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  terrified  beyond  measure. 

' '  It  was  the  letter ! ' '  thought  Planus. 

Evidently  that  letter  from  his  wife  must  have  made 
some  extraordinary  revelation  to  Risler;  and,  in  order 
not  to  disturb  his  hosts,  he  had  made  his  escape  noise- 
lessly through  the  window,  like  a  burglar.  Why? 
With  what  aim  in  view  ? 

■'You  will  see,  sister,"  said  poor  Planus,  as  he  dressed 
[  ^3^  ] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

with  all  haste,  "you  will  see  that  that  hussy  has  played 
him  still  another  trick."  And  when  his  sister  tried  to 
encourage  him,  he  recurred  to  his  favorite  refrain : 

"7  haj  no  gonfidence!^^ 

As  soon  as  he  was  dressed,  he  darted  out  of  the  house. 

Risler's  footprints  could  be  distinguished  on  the  wet 
ground  as  far  as  the  gate  of  the  little  garden.  He  must 
have  gone  before  daylight,  for  the  beds  of  vegetables 
and  flowers  were  trampled  down  at  random  by  deep 
footprints  with  long  spaces  between ;  there  were  marks 
of  heels  on  the  garden-wall  and  the  mortar  was  crum- 
bled slightly  on  top.  The  brother  and  sister  went  out 
on  the  road  skirting  the  fortifications.  There  it  was 
impossible  to  follow  the  footprints.  They  could  tell 
nothing  more  than  that  Risler  had  gone  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Orleans  road. 

"After  all,"  Mademoiselle  Planus  ventured  to  say, 
"we  are  very  foolish  to  torment  ourselves  about  him; 
perhaps  he  has  simply  gone  back  to  the  factory." 

Sigismond  shook  his  head.  Ah!  if  he  had  said  all 
that  he  thought ! 

"Return  to  the  house,  sister.    I  will  go  and  see." 

And  with  the  old  "7  haj  no  gonfidence"  he  rushed 
away  Hke  a  hurricane,  his  white  mane  standing  even 
more  erect  than  usual. 

At  that  hour,  on  the  road  near  the  fortifications,  was 
an  endless  procession  of  soldiers  and  market-gardeners, 
guard-mounting,  officers'  horses  out  for  exercise,  sut- 
lers with  their  paraphernalia,  all  the  bustle  and  activity 
that  is  seen  in  the  morning  in  the  neighborhood  of 
forts.     Planus  was  striding  along  amid  the  tumult, 

[333] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

when  suddenly  he  stopped.  At  the  foot  of  the  bank, 
on  the  left,  in  front  of  a  small,  square  building,  with  the 
inscription. 

CITY  OF  PARIS, 
ENTRANCE  TO  THE  QUARRIES, 

on  the  rough  plaster,  he  saw  a  crowd  assembled,  and 
soldiers'  and  custom-house  officers'  uniforms,  mingled 
with  the  shabby,  dirty  blouses  of  barracks-loafers. 
The  old  man  instinctively  approached.  A  customs 
officer,  seated  on  the  stone  step  below  a  round  postern 
with  iron  bars,  was  talking  with  many  gestures,  as  if  he 
were  acting  out  his  narrative. 

"He  was  where  I  am,"  he  said.  *'He  had  hanged 
himself  sitting,  by  pulling  with  all  his  strength  on  the 
rope!  It's  clear  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  die, 
for  he  had  a  razor  in  his  pocket  that  he  would  have  used 
in  case  the  rope  had  broken." 

A  voice  in  the  crowd  exclaimed:  "Poor  devil!" 
Then  another,  a  tremulous  voice,  choking  with  emo- 
tion, asked  timidly: 

"Is  it  quite  certain  that  he's  dead?" 

Everybody  looked  at  Planus  and  began  to  laugh. 

"Well,  here's  a  greenhorn,"  said  the  officer.  "Don't 
I  tell  you  that  he  was  all  blue  this  morning,  when  we 
cut  him  down  to  take  him  to  the  chasseurs'  barracks!" 

The  barracks  were  not  far  away ;  and  yet  Sigismond 
Planus  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  the  world  in  drag- 
ging himself  so  far.  In  vain  did  he  say  to  himself  that 
suicides  are  of  frequent  occurrence  in  Paris,  especially  in 

[334] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

those  regions;  that  not  a  day  passes  that  a  dead  body 
is  not  found  somewhere  along  that  line  of  fortifications, 
as  upon  the  shores  of  a  tempestuous  sea, — he  could  not 
escape  the  terrible  presentiment  that  had  oppressed  his 
heart  since  early  morning. 

''Ah!  you  have  come  to  see  the  man  that  hanged 
himself,"  said  the  quartermaster-sergeant  at  the  door 
of  the  barracks.    ''See!  there  he  is." 

The  body  had  been  laid  on  a  table  supported  by 
trestles  in  a  sort  of  shed.  A  cavalry  cloak  that  had  been 
thrown  over  it  covered  it  from  head  to  foot,  and  fell  in 
the  shroud-like  folds  which  all  draperies  assume  that 
come  in  contact  with  the  rigidity  of  death.  A  group  of 
officers  and  several  soldiers  in  duck  trousers  were  look- 
ing on  at  a  distance,  whispering  as  if  in  a  church; 
and  an  assistant-surgeon  was  writing  a  report  of  the 
death  on  a  high  window-ledge.  To  him  Sigismond 
spoke. 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  see  him,"  he  said  softly. 

"Go  and  look." 

He  walked  to  the  table,  hesitated  a  minute,  then, 
summoning  courage,  uncovered  a  swollen  face,  a  tall, 
motionless  body  in  its  rain-soaked  garments. 

"She  has  killed  you  at  last,  my  old  comrade!"  mur- 
mured Planus,  and  fell  on  his  knees,  sobbing  bitterly. 

The  officers  had  come  forward,  gazing  curiously  at 
the  body,  which  was  left  uncovered. 

"Look,  surgeon,"  said  one  of  them.  "His  hand  is 
closed,  as  if  he  were  holding  something  in  it." 

"That  is  true,"  the  surgeon  replied,  drawing  nearer. 
"That   sometimes  happens  in   the  last  convulsions. 

[  335  ] 


ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

You  remember  at  Solferino,  Commandant  Bordy  held 
his  Httle  daughter's  miniature  in  his  hand  Hke  that? 
We  had  much  difficulty  in  taking  it  from  him." 

As  he  spoke  he  tried  to  open  the  poor,  tightly-closed 
dead  hand. 

"Look!"  said  he,  "it  is  a  letter  that  he  is  holding  so 
tight." 

He  was  about  to  read  it ;  but  one  of  the  officers  took 
it  from  his  hands  and  passed  it  to  Sigismond,  who  was 
still  kneeling. 

"Here,  Monsieur.  Perhaps  you  will  find  in  this 
some  last  wish  to  be  carried  out." 

Sigismond  Planus  rose.  As  the  light  in  the  room 
was  dim,  he  walked  with  faltering  step  to  the  window, 
and  read,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears: 

"Well,  yes,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  more  than  ever 
and  forever !  What  is  the  use  of  struggling  and  fighting 
against  fate?    Our  sin  is  stronger  than  we  ..." 

It  was  the  letter  which  Frantz  had  written  to  his 
sister-in-law  a  year  before,  and  which  Sidonie  had  sent 
to  her  husband  on  the  day  following  their  terrible  scene, 
to  revenge  herself  on  him  and  his  brother  at  the  same 
time. 

Risler  could  have  survived  his  wife's  treachery,  but 
that  of  his  brother  had  killed  him. 

When  Sigismond  understood,  he  was  petrified  with 
horror.  He  stood  there,  with  the  letter  in  his  hand, 
gazing  mechanically  through  the  open  window. 

The  clock  struck  six. 

Yonder,  over  Paris,  whose  dull  roar  they  could  hear 
although  they  could  not  see  the  city,  a  cloud  of  smoke 

[336] 


FROMONT  AND  RISLER 

arose,  heavy  and  hot,  moving  slowly  upward,  with  a 
fringe  of  red  and  black  around  its  edges,  like  the 
powder-smoke  on  a  field  of  battle.  Little  by  little, 
steeples,  white  buildings,  a  gilded  cupola,  emerged 
from  the  mist,  and  burst  forth  in  a  splendid  awakening. 
Then  the  thousands  of  tall  factory  chimneys,  towering 
above  that  sea  of  clustered  roofs,  began  with  one  accord 
to  exhale  their  quivering  vapor,  with  the  energy  of  a 
steamer  about  to  sail.  Life  was  beginning  anew. 
Forward,  ye  wheels  of  time!  And  so  much  the  worse 
for  him  who  lags  behind ! 

Thereupon  old  Planus  gave  way  to  a  terrible  out- 
burst of  wrath. 

"Ah!  harlot — harlot!"  he  cried,  shaking  his  fist; 
and  no  one  could  say  whether  he  was  addressing  the 
woman  or  the  city  of  Paris. 


23  t337] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

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